Til Kingdom Come
by nowarning23
Summary: The sequel to "To Lose My Life"... to prevent spoilers, the full summary for this story is inside. You MUST read "To Lose My Life" first or this won't make much sense.
1. All I Need

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**This is the sequel to To Lose My Life so if you haven't read that you ABSOLUTELY MUST because this won't make any sense otherwise.**

**Til Kingdom Come summary- Eighteen months after Arthur's death, the team is broken up, each member trying to deal with and overcome their grief and guilt. Struggling to move on from losing Arthur, ****Ariadne has abandoned dream work and is working at an architecture firm in New York City, when ****she receives a mysterious package containing photos of Arthur with a note claiming that he is alive. With Cobb, Eames and Micah, Ariadne begins the journey to rescue and save her love... Only to realize that Arthur's mind needs to be saved as well.**

**To Lose My Life was Arthur's hero's journey. Till Kingdom Come is Ariadne's hero's journey. (So if you were ever frustrated with how weak Ariadne seemed in the former... I was too, and this story is my redemption!) I'm looking forward to developing Eames' background story, Cobb working on earning absolution from Arthur, Micah fully discovering the psychology of the dream world, and of course, Ariadne saving Arthur and trying to repair the relationship they once had.**

**Oh, Micah Harper is my own Original Character.**

**Chapter title from the gorgeous Radiohead song. Certainly sets the mood.**

All I Need

The birds cawed overhead, and she watched their progress with idle interest, enjoying the way their dark forms contrasted with the periwinkle blue that was the afternoon sky over Paris. A soft breeze ambled towards her, sending her loose brown hair fluttering around her face. She found her jeans-clad legs swinging, her sneakers tapping the ground softly when they returned beneath the bench. She took a deep breath, her fingers grazing the wood of the bench she was perched on, her eyes locked on the bright blue water of the Seine. She felt very calm, very content.

"What are you thinking about?"

She turned, slightly startled. A man was approaching her, wearing a black three-piece suit, though without the jacket; it hung over his shoulder. He handed her a green sweater, and she smiled, taking it and pulling it over her head. He sat on the bench beside her, his body a small inch from hers, but just out of reach.

"Nothing really," she said, honestly. "I just really like this spot."

She looked at him, catching his small smile as he followed her lead, swinging his much longer legs in sync with hers. His hair was perfectly slicked back, though she watched with some amusement as the wind threatened to pick it up.

"I thought you would," he said at last, and she recognized his self-congratulatory smile. She rolled her eyes and looked up at the sky, wondering how it could possibly look that beautiful. They sat in silence for a while.

He spoke suddenly. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

She turned, raising an eyebrow. He was rarely this formal with her; he sounded very serious. "Okay. Shoot."

His mouth quirked slightly, and he rested his arms over the tops of his legs, resting his head in his hands. She looked at him, frowning, and rubbing the tops of her knees in confusion. Was he… uncertain?

"Arthur?" She paused. "What is it?"

"I…" He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up some. "I'm not sure how to put this…"

Her stomach took a tumble. Everything had been going so well; was it possible Arthur was having doubts now? About what? _Her_?

Some of this panic must have shown on her face, because he straightened and started shaking his head determinedly. "No! No, it's nothing bad. Or, at least… I hope it isn't anything bad."

"What is it?" Ariadne demanded. "You're making me nervous."

"Sorry," he muttered. He looked at her then, finally sitting up straight, his hands smoothing his tie and vest almost reflexively. "I was wondering if you've ever thought about what's next… with us."

She blinked. "What?"

Arthur sighed. "Ari. We've been together for a while now."

"Yes…" She said slowly. The wheels were turning in her head, and she was trying to catch up to Arthur's mindset. "What are you saying?"

"Have you ever thought about marriage?"

Her stomach fell away, as did her mouth when she caught up to what he was really talking about.

"… Oh."

He laughed lightly, relaxing significantly and straightening again. Arthur looked out at the river for a long moment as Ariadne struggled to process the conversation. He turned back to her soon enough. "I basically just said that I want to marry you and your response is 'oh'? You really must love me."

"I do-" Ariadne quickly finished the sentence "-I do love you. This is just…"

"Unexpected?"

She shook her head. "No… Not entirely. I mean, I figured you would want to talk about this at some point. Marriage... it's definitely right up your alley."

"Ari…" He turned, reaching forward and grasping her hand tightly in both of his. "Please, look at me."

She did, raising her eyes to meet his. He looked intense.

"I'm not proposing," he clarified. "I'm just telling you that I would very much love to marry you. I'm thirty, and… Well, I guess age just caught up with me. But it's also you. You know that. You're the first-and I hope only-woman I want to marry."

"Yeah," she murmured. "But Arthur… I'm twenty-three. I'm not even done with school. I want to marry you, too, but I'm too young right now. I want to have a job I love before I get engaged."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I understand, and I agree." He smiled widely. "But the moment you tell me you're ready, I'm going to buy a ring."

She laughed and scooted closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder. He kept one hand in hers and raised his free arm, wrapping it around her shoulders, pressing her to his side. Together they sat in silence, watching the passersby, from the businessman on his way to a meeting, to the middle-aged women on their lunch break, to the gawking tourists whose cameras snapped furiously at every moment. Ariadne sighed and closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of Paris and Arthur; she couldn't imagine a more perfect combination.

"Are you happy, Ariadne?"

Ariadne stared up at Arthur in surprise. "Am I happy? Of course I am! The man I love just told me that he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I'm very happy."

"Good," Arthur said, smiling.

"Why'd you ask?"

"Just checking," Arthur hedged. His expression turned solemn suddenly, and he turned his head, pressing his lips to her forehead. She closed her eyes, smiling at the warm contact.

"Tally-ho! I spot a couple of lovebirds!"

Her eyes snapped open and both she and Arthur scrambled around to look behind them, nearly twisting their necks in their haste. Ariadne giggled when she spotted the four men approaching them.

"Eames?" Arthur's query was muffled in the groan that accompanied it as Eames walked around to face them, beaming, his usual scruff apparent, his blue eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a pastry in his hand. Beside him was Cobb, hands in his pockets, a shy smile on his face, embarrassed to have interrupted Arthur and Ariadne at such a private moment. Then there was Yusuf, a bundled newspaper under his arm and a coffee in his other hand, beaming with enthusiasm. And last was Micah Harper, grinning shyly, sporting a baseball cap with the logo of the Texas Rangers baseball team, twisting his hands together with his nervous energy.

"Hey!" Ariadne said excitedly. "Edward, Cobb, Yusuf, Micah! What are you all doing here?"

"Visiting you, of course," Yusuf said warmly.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "And you just happened to know we'd be in this particular park?"

"I sensed your ambivalent presence, darling," Eames chortled. He tapped the side of his head. "Not just a pretty face, you see." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"We're not _just_ visiting," Micah admitted. "We've got a job."

"A job?" Ariadne repeated. Her eyes swiveled to Cobb. "I thought you'd retired! Where are your kids?"

Cobb smiled. "Over there." He nodded to the side and she looked and sure enough, two small blonde children were playing in the grass just a few yards away, squealing with obvious excitement. "They're looking forward to some quality time with their grandpa. And me, of course. We'll stay local."

"Gosh, that sounds nice," Ariadne remarked.

"Look, Cobb..." Arthur sighed, looking deeply apologetic. "I told you this months ago, and I'm sure Stephen said the same. I'm retired. I'm out of the game, I'm done."

It was Cobb's turn to sigh, his expression disappointed. Meanwhile, Eames' and Yusuf's jaws dropped.

"_What?**" **_Yusuf gasped.

"My God," Eames murmured. "Bloody hell, _why_? You live for dream work. You told me once that it was the best thing that ever happened to you-"

"-And it was," Arthur said. "Until..."

"Until what?"

Arthur gave a small smile. "Until I met someone I decided was worth spending time in reality for." He looked at Ariadne, still sitting so close to him on the park bench. Ariadne blushed but met his adoring gaze unflinchingly. "I've been in love with her for so long... Sometimes I think since the first moment I saw her."

"You goose," Ariadne mumbled, blushing even more at the sappiness of it all, while secretly loving how honest Arthur was speaking about her, in front of their colleagues.

"And I decided she was too important to risk," Arthur murmured. "So I've given it up. It's almost hard to imagine my life before her, how empty and meaningless it was, and now... I'm ready to wake up, and she's the only one I want to wake up next to."

"Arthur," Ariadne croaked. "You're the only one I want to wake up with, too..."

"But you'll have to wake up without him."

It was like the entire park froze when Cobb spoke. The birds stopped chirping, the wind stopped blowing, the boats on the river stilled, and every person in the vicinity besides the six of them vanished. Ariadne tore her gaze from Arthur to face Cobb, Eames, Yusuf and Micah; all of their expressions had unexpectedly and alarmingly darkened.

"Without...?" She trailed off in bewilderment. "Cobb?"

"Ariadne." Micah's voice was uncharacteristically hard. "How did you get here?"

She huffed irritably. "Oh please, Micah. I've dreamed a lot, don't you think I'd know by now if I-"

But she was forced to trail off, her spine tingling and a chill coming over her as she realized that Micah had a point in asking, for she couldn't recall how she'd come to be at this park bench, and furthermore... but it couldn't be true...

Eames held out a hand and Arthur took it; the two shook hands, smirking at the other.

"Even if we're all figments of Ari's imagination..." Eames shrugged. "I've missed you, darling."

Micah took a shuddering breath, his eyes trained on Arthur. Arthur held out his hand and Micah gripped it tightly.

"This sucks," he muttered, causing Arthur to chuckle.

Ariadne was experiencing a panic attack bordering on hysteria. Her eyes took in the scene, her head swiveling from Arthur to Micah and back.

"We met in Los Angeles," she whispered. "Micah, you're from Harvard, you're a psychology graduate student, Cobb brought you on for the Browning job, when he took Cobb's children, and Micah, we've been training you in everything, and you worship Arthur, and he almost drowned you but you love him, and we don't know why, and Micah, you were there, you pulled me away from the power plant, you were with me when we watched-"

She broke off, the horror slamming her like a tidal wave. All at once, Eames, Cobb, Micah and Yusuf vanished, and it was just her and Arthur sitting on the park bench.

Arthur's face was devastatingly sorrowful. He lifted his hand and touched her face. "I'm sorry, Ariadne."

"That conversation... You asked me to marry you when we were in Italy, on our trip over the summer... Not here, in Paris," she croaked, her heart heavy. "You already bought a ring. You hit it in the PASIV, and told me where to find it, and..."

She remembered now.

"Oh, God," Ariadne gasped. "Arthur, I'm so sorry, I broke my promise, I'm using the PASIV-"

"Ssh." He pressed a finger to her lips, his eyes gentle. "I know. Don't apologize to me, Ari. It..." He hesitated. "I'm not _me_. The real me... I'm dead."

"I miss you so much," she gasped, jumping forward. She gripped his neck in her hand, feeling the ends of his hair tickle her fingers, her other arm wrapped around his shoulders. She inhaled and her breath shook when she was hit with a blast of aftershave; her attempts at recreating it had been for moot, though her memories of it were definitely intact and recreated it perfectly here.

She felt Arthur turn his head, and she closed her eyes tightly when she felt him press his lips to her cheek.

"Ssh," he whispered. For a wild moment, she wondered why he'd said that, and then she felt herself trembling, and realized she was sobbing.

"I'm sorry," she croaked. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."

He sighed. "Ariadne. You have nothing to apologize for." He curved his back, pulling away hesitantly. Ariadne wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her sleeve as Arthur held her shoulders in his hands.

"Come on, Ari. Look at me."

She forced her eyes to lock in on his, the familiar auburn melting her heart. He smiled warmly at her.

"How are you doing, my love?"

She took a deep breath. "Not so good. Arthur, I miss you."

"I miss you too," he murmured, taking one of her hands and kissing it. She stared at him, waiting for him to say something, but he didn't. He only gripped her hand, running his thumb over her skin. And it hit her.

"You're not real," she whispered.

He shook his head. "I'm not. I'm your projection. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said softly. "I'm being silly. It doesn't really matter what I say to you, does it? The real you won't hear it."

"I won't," he confirmed. "But you can still say it... Might make you feel better."

She raised her eyes and took a deep breath. "I love you, Arthur."

He smiled. "I love you, Ariadne. You know I do."

"I know you did," she whispered. "You loved me so much, you gave up your life for mine, you let yourself be shot twice and thrown down an elevator shaft..."

"Stop it," Arthur said sharply. "Stop saying that I _loved_ you."

"Why?"

He looked at her, really looked at her, his dark auburn eyes staring directly into hers, and she could feel the ground shaking and knew their time was almost up. Arthur abruptly leaned forward, his lips ghosting over her face, warm breath blowing over her.

"How do you know..." He murmured, and Ariadne leaned into his touch, gripping his hand in hers. "How do you know that I don't _still_ love you? How do you know I left... How do you know..."

His lips went to her ear as he whispered, "How do you know I'm not still with you?"

And then the bench vanished, the Seine vanished, Paris vanished, _her world_ vanished, and Arthur crumbled with it. And when Ariadne opened her eyes, she was lying fully-clothed on her bed and she was alone.


	2. I Would Like To Call It Beauty

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**First: I forgot to say this in the first chapter, but I appreciated your reviews/comments regarding the end of "To Lose My Life." Everything was very forthcoming and positive and I loved all of it. I would not be doing this project if I didn't feel it was desired.**

**And of course... REVIEWERS! WELCOME! _MajesticMoments_: Yay! I'm aiming for interesting. I wanted to keep the first chapter ambiguous so as to hook people to keep reading; all your different ideas on what was doing on were just what I wanted people to think! This chapter explores more of what's going on with Ariadne, so I think that'll be a good response to your other comments. (P.S. I went to your profile and saw you mentioned my story on it and I pretty much imploded with joy)** _**Iole17**_**_:_ haha thanks! I just decided to start posting while the interest was good... _In. Blue. 85_: cool! thanks for sticking with it! _Guest_: Yay! That's what I want to hear! _cinema therapy: _so nervous and excited about this... _Guest_: thank you! love the enthusiasm. _Caliber13_: quite the response, so great! yay Ari-female power haha _tenneyshoes_: hey, you reviewed! neat! here's your update... _Knuckiducki_: yep, not at 200 reviews yet :( and yes-**

**STORY TITLE (can't believe I forgot) is indeed from the Coldplay song.**

**Guest (and maybe some others) wondered if I'm posting as I write or if I have an outline: answer is both. I have a full outline, I know what needs to happen in each chapter... But I'm writing the chapters as I go. "To Lose My Life" was finished before I started to post it, which is why I updated so much! This is a whole new approach and I'm terrified I won't feel motivated to keep writing it. So fair warning about that...**

**Chapter title from the song by Corinne Bailey Rae. Though I kind of think anything from "The Sea" would work...**

I Would Like To Call It Beauty

Friday, May 10, 2013: New York City, New York: Ariadne's Apartment: Ariadne

Ariadne took a couple deep breaths, just trying to gather herself together. She blinked furiously, trying to rid the images of the dream from her eyelids, where they seemed to be stamped.

_The beauty of Paris... The man in the three-piece suit... Eames' laughter... Cobb's small smile... Micah's total enthusiasm... Yusuf's quiet composure... The feel of Arthur's hands on her, his lips ghosting over her face, his voice at her ear, his dark eyes-_

She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, accidentally tearing the needle from her wrist. She glanced to the side at Arthur's PASIV, open beside her on her bed. The familiar mechanism was just beginning to wind down, and she reached over, carefully coiling the plastic tubing back to the case, trying to ignore the feeling of guilt that threatened to overwhelm her.

_Don't feel guilty_, she thought to herself. _Don't berate yourself, not when he isn't here to get angry_.

The late afternoon sun was streaming through the windows of her bedroom, and she could clearly hear the car horns and loud chatter that made up a sunny afternoon in Manhattan. Though she hadn't lived in the city for a year yet, Ariadne loved it. She loved the pace, how everyone knew where they were going and what they were doing. She loved how easily she blended in, because of how ridiculously diverse the place was. It was much too easy to feel a sense of belonging here, and that was something that Ariadne had been seriously lacking for far too long.

After her graduation a year previously, Ariadne had experienced an awkward transition from graduate school to choosing where to work as an architect. For so long (or it'd felt like so long) she'd been certain she would go into dream work, never going into the actual dreams in order to appease Arthur, who would've been there, if her life had gone on the way she'd expected it to. But then Arthur died, and she found herself adrift, realizing she couldn't bear to design dreams, not when every staircase, every balcony, every trapdoor, reminded her of him.

She'd tried, she had to. Two weeks after graduation, in the midst of her uncertainty, she'd begun a brand new design in her Paris apartment, overtaking the living room with blueprints and maps. The project took her another week to complete, a grand dream of a beautiful eighteenth century mansion. She somehow persuaded Professor Miles to come along with her (he'd taught her how to use the PASIV as well) to get his opinion on it, ignoring his wry comments that he was certain it would be marvelous.

Everything had seemed to be going well in the dream. She'd showed Miles every nook and cranny of the mansion, and they'd been almost done with the dream when Ariadne had casually glanced out an upstairs window and seen a man standing in the garden, his back to her. As if he could sense her eyes watching him, the man had turned, and she'd gasped, Arthur's smooth smirk apparent, as he lifted a single white rose and held it aloft to her. With Miles' protests ringing in her ears, she'd scrambled down the stairs and through the huge kitchen, bursting through the back door into the garden. It was only then that she'd slowed, hesitantly approaching Arthur.

He'd been playing with the petals of the rose, idly tossing them off in silence. When she reached him, he looked up, his eyes blank and face smooth and expressionless. She'd bit her lip, drinking him in, memorizing him (exactly as she remembered! Her memory was wonderful) and waiting for him to speak first.

She hadn't waited long when he spoke, his voice hypnotic and smooth.

"Do you remember," he'd murmured, "when you said you'd marry me?"

Ariadne had nodded furiously, wringing her hands in anxiety. She wasn't used to this Arthur, who spoke so mesmerizingly and whose face bore no trace of emotion, who tore roses apart for no apparent reason. Arthur finally stopped, a single petal left on the white rose, and looked her in the eye.

"Will you still?" He'd whispered.

She'd hesitated, taking a deep breath. Her mind was reeling, struggling to keep a hold on reality. She felt her pocket and pulled out the bishop. They both watched it fall on the ground at their feet.

It was only after assuring herself that this wasn't real that she'd answered: "Yes."

Arthur's face crumpled, turning both devastated and infuriated. "Only because you know I'm not real," he'd whispered. "Only because you don't really have to."

"No," she'd said, scrambling to explain herself. "No, Arthur, you know that isn't true-"

"I couldn't, could I?" He'd snapped. "I'm not even _me_. I'm _you_."

And then the dream had collapsed in a swirl of color and sound. Ariadne had woken, draped in a chair in Miles' office. The professor's concerned face only had to catch her attention before her words were out: "_I can't do this_."

That revelation had led her to abandon dream work entirely, causing her to seek employment at architecture firms around the world, eventually earning her a post at a new Manhattan start-up called Achtung. Achtung was busy right now, working hard on several different projects that had sent some of her co-workers to places across the world, in order to watch over jobs. As she hadn't even been working at the architecture firm for a year, Ariadne was not one of them. She was still a background worker, giving advice and working as an extra set of hands for the bigger projects. She didn't mind, but she daydreamed of watching a building of her own grow before her eyes in Dubai or Copenhagen.

All this rushed through her mind, broken by the sound of a determined knock on her closed and locked bedroom door.

"Ari! Are you almost ready?"

Ariadne had not been the only Beaux-Arts graduate to end up in New York City. One of her closest friends from the school, the one who she'd shared an apartment with before Arthur had asked her to move in with him, had gotten an offer at a publishing house in Manhattan and accepted. It hadn't taken long for Alison and Ariadne to decide to get an apartment together, to be roommates once again.

She and Alison lived in the Soho neighborhood, in a small apartment. With Alison working as an illustrator for a publishing company, she and Ariadne managed to make enough of an income to afford a place in Manhattan.

Of course, Alison didn't know that Ariadne's net worth was somewhere in the neighborhood of $30 million.

Ariadne hadn't spent much of Arthur's money. She'd splurged a little with the apartment (she liked the neighborhood, aware that even Arthur, always so picky and attentive, would've approved) but selling the apartment in Paris (a lot bigger and in a more expensive area) had covered most of it. Ariadne generally behaved the same as before with her spending habits, though she was quicker to replace something when it broke. She knew that Arthur would be horrified if she were living in a dump in the biggest city in the United States.

And she always bought any scarves she liked. She knew Arthur would've approved of that.

She sighed, picking herself off her bed and stowing the PASIV in the back of her closet, hiding it behind her longer jackets and dresses, before unlocking her door and walking into the main area of the apartment.

The apartment was tidy, though a little unorganized. Both Alison and Ariadne were far too busy with work to put in a lot of effort in maintaining their apartment. Ariadne did her best, though: she took off her shoes by the door, she hung up her coat and always set her bag down on her neatly made bed.

Ariadne made a beeline for the kitchen, where, sure enough, Alison was, waiting for her kettle of water to come to boil. A ready mug and tea bag sat on the counter beside her. She didn't look up from her copy of the month's Cosmo magazine until she heard Ariadne get out her own mug.

"_Ari!_" Alison sounded horrified, and Ariadne took the opportunity to look more closely at Alison.

She was wearing a light lavender colored dress that flowed to her knees, and her hair was up in an elegant chignon. She was wearing what Ariadne recognized as the earrings her mother had given her for Christmas, along with the gold pumps Ariadne had coerced her into buying a couple weeks earlier.

"Wow, Alison," Ariadne said. "You look stunning."

"Thank you, but we have a bigger situation here," Alison huffed. "Ariadne. Aren't you forgetting something?"

Ariadne stared hard at Alison, all the while racking her brains. _Friday night_... _Alison looks amazing_... _She's looking at me in horror_... Ariadne glanced down, taking in her baggy t-shirt and sweatpants, her default outfit she jumped into as soon as she locked the front door after coming home from work. And all at once, it hit her.

"Oh, God," she moaned. "Don't tell me that date is tonight..."

"Bingo," Alison chirped. "Ethan's co-worker, remember? The one I met at his work party and decided would be _perfect_ for you? As a rebound, I should add, I know you're nowhere near committing to anyone, not after-"

"I got it," Ariadne snapped, raising a hand.

Alison frowned. "You said you'd go, Ari. Paul's a nice guy, I swear."

"How much time do we have?"

"All the time you need," Alison said firmly. "I want you looking fabulous; I've seen it before, I know you can do it, even if you do your best not to." Ariadne rolled her eyes as Alison added, "I'll just call Ethan and tell him to give us some time. They'll wait."

"I'm sure they will," Ariadne muttered, walking back to her bedroom.

Alison's boyfriend was Ethan Fitzgerald, who had asked her out after striking up a conversation with her while they waited in line in a coffee shop. Ethan did something to do with accounting, and upon hearing that, Ariadne had been certain that Alison would tire of him quickly; he was far from her normal type, skinny, with light blond hair and a fondness for sweater vests. Yet two months later, Alison was still growing crazier and crazier for the guy. She and Ethan had attended a spring retreat his company had hosted a week earlier, where Ethan introduced her to his closest friend at work, Paul Levine, who Alison described as "a strawberry blonde with a solid sense of humor."

When Alison had asked her if she would go out on a double date with her, Ethan and Paul ("Ethan and I quite agree, you and Paul will get along well!") Ariadne had immediately declined.

Ariadne's romantic life had been a never-ending train crash since Arthur died. She'd spent the first eight months after his death refusing set-ups from her girl friends, turning down invitations from the male friends who'd always liked her but had never been able to ask her out because of Arthur, and generally avoiding eye contact with men everywhere she went, in order to clearly express her complete lack of interest. But as she got closer to nine months without a date, her female friends, Alison leading, told her it was time to begin to move on.

She'd felt almost sorry for them. She couldn't imagine how she'd help a close friend whose boyfriend had died, and she knew her friends only had her best interests at heart. And it was with that thought in mind that she began to agree to accept the contacts in their little black books, and say yes to the occasional mutual friend.

But then a funny thing began to happen. Ariadne would go on one date, maybe a second date, and then... Nothing. She began to go on dates with random guys, guys she had nothing in common with, guys she would've avoided like the plague if she'd been her regular, looking for romance, self.

It didn't take long for her friends to figure out what was going on: Ariadne was actively trying to not fall in love. And she was succeeding, by dating men who were nothing like Arthur.

Ariadne hesitated as she put her earrings in, staring at her face in her mirror. Her chocolate brown eyes looked back at her, oddly empty and bored-looking. Slowly, she slid her eyes down from her face towards her neck, where a long silver chain hung. The end of it vanished under her dress, and Ariadne carefully tugged the chain up. From the end hung a silver engagement ring, diamonds glittering softly in the light.

Ariadne had never showed the ring to anyone, especially Alison. Even though Alison was aware of how long her and Arthur's relationship had been, she wasn't sure she understood the _depth_ of it. And she certainly wasn't sure how Alison would respond to learning that Ariadne still carried the ring with her, wherever she went, and that sometimes, when she was alone, she slid it on to her finger and pretended that everything was normal, and that Arthur would be home any minute.

She suddenly sank to her knees, bending down to fumble under her bed, eventually pulling out a shoebox. A shoebox, that if Alison found, she would be killed for having.

Ariadne tugged off the lid and found herself face to face with a photograph of Arthur.

He was sitting on a sandy beach in Italy, his feet bare, his skin tanner than normal and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He was smiling, beaming really, at the camera, while the ocean collapsed in dark blue colors behind him.

Ariadne smiled, biting her lip, as she drank in the happiness Arthur radiated in the photo. She'd taken the picture during their vacation in the Mediterranean in the summer of 2011, the same trip where Arthur had informed her that he was ready to marry her, and would do so whenever she wanted.

_I'm sorry I didn't say yes_, she thought.

Beneath the photo were almost two dozen others, Arthur in every one of them, stacked and bound together with a rubber band. The rest of the shoebox contained mementos: ticket stubs to concerts and shows; petals of flowers bought in bouquets at farmers markets; small notes in Arthur's neat handwriting, grocery lists, ideas for experiments for Madame Durant; a small bottle of aftershave; two neatly bundled ties; a small stack of passports for Arthurs with different surnames; an iPod, turned off; and at the very bottom, an unmarked silver DVD that Ariadne considered to be her most prized possession.

"Ariadne?" Alison's call forced Ariadne to snap out of it. She hurriedly closed the shoebox, shoved it under her bed, jumped into her black heels and left her bedroom.

Alison spent the subway ride to the restaurant chattering about her work day and the new children's book she was working on. Alison's work stories normally interested Ariadne, but she found herself unable to focus on Alison's voice. Instead, she stared straight ahead of her at an empty orange seat, the window above it showcasing the tunnels under Manhattan as they sped by. She rested her head on her hand, her eyes only seeing Arthur's face, his hair mussed and free in the warm Mediterranean wind, the dimples in his cheeks alight with his laughter. Unbidden, she could've sworn she heard his laugh, and she jerked her head up, her eyes darting among the other passengers.

There was no sign of him, and she shouldn't have expected anything otherwise.

Alison's talk died away as they exited on Spring Street. Ariadne followed her through the small throng of passengers that left with them. Alison, having perfected the speed of a New Yorker, walked quickly. Ariadne hurried after her, climbing the steps to the street above.

It was still early in the evening, and the sun was only barely slanting over the tall buildings. She enjoyed the warm weather, reflecting on how summer was coming and that was almost like hell on Earth. It got _so_ humid; a girl from Montreal could barely stand it.

"Ariadne. _Ariadne_."

"Huh?" Ariadne swung her head around, suddenly aware that Alison had been trying to get her attention.

Her best friend had a somber look on her face. "You're thinking about _him_, aren't you?"

Ariadne sighed, playing with a lock of her hair, which she'd left loose around her shoulders. "Sorry, Alison."

Alison's expression turned even more pitiful as she reached out and squeezed one of Ariadne's hands between both of hers. "Gosh. He's really ruined you for other men."

When Alison said off-handed comments like that, she didn't realize how true they were. To Ariadne's friends, Arthur had been her longest relationship and a very difficult one to get past, but one that it was very possible to _get past_, considering the man had been dead for a year and a half.

But for Ariadne, letting Arthur go meant letting go of the man she'd wanted to marry, the man she'd wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

The man who'd died for her.

"Look, Ari," Alison said. "He isn't going to be a second Arthur, okay? He isn't going to replace him. You just really need one, good, rebound. Longer than two dates. And I really think you'll like this guy. Can you try, for me, please?"

Ariadne looked at Alison, at her pleading expression. "I'll try, Alison."

"_Tomorrow. Promise me that you will try. That you won't just lay down and let them kill you. Try to survive._"

"_I will. I'll try._"

The restaurant was only a few months old, but already a popular spot in the Upper East Side. Ariadne hovered behind Alison as she spoke to the hostess, her eyes swiveling around the room; she was always looking for escape routes, a side effect of living with Arthur.

"Alison!"

The call came from Ethan, who was waving at them from a table next to the window. Ariadne had to admit, he'd dressed up for the occasion: he was wearing a white suit with black tie, his bright hair arranged neatly. Alison squealed and darted over, embracing him warmly. Ariadne followed behind.

"Hey babe," Alison gushed. "How are you?"

"Better, now that you're here," Ethan said smoothly. Ariadne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He noticed Ariadne and nodded at her. "Hello, Ariadne. You look great."

"Thanks, Ethan," Ariadne replied.

A second man stood up from the table and held out his hand. "Hi, Ariadne. I'm Paul."

Paul's hair was more red than blonde, and he was wearing a black suit and light blue tie. He wore glasses and looked rather nervous, even as Ariadne warmly shook his hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Paul," she said.

"You look gorgeous," Paul told her, and Ariadne couldn't help but blush. She'd followed Alison's example and glammed up, wearing her favorite little black dress with silver stud earrings. Alison had declared her a "petite, but dangerous, bombshell" as they'd left the apartment. After Paul's comment, Alison caught her eye and winked, and Ariadne allowed Paul to pull her chair out for her.

And she had to give it to Alison (and Ethan, she supposed): Paul was wonderful. Polite, kind and attentive, he asked Ariadne about herself, never eager to wait for her to finish speaking to offer a tidbit about himself. He downplayed his achievements, quick to pass them off as belonging to others, most often Ethan, with whom it was clear, he was good friends.

"What was it like, living in Paris?" Paul asked, as they ate through fine Italian cuisine. "I've only lived in two places: Tarrytown and Manhattan, so my worldview on living is pretty small."

Ariadne smiled. "I loved living in Paris. Everything about it... the architecture, the history, the culture... It was like living in a dream."

"_If I hadn't caught up to you at LAX last September… If I'd just let you get on with your life-_"

"_… Then I would be living in an apartment with two roommates from school, going out on boring dates with boys I couldn't care less for. Don't wish I'd never met you, Arthur. Je ne regrette rien._"

Paul smiled. "I can't even imagine. Why'd you leave?"

"_I don't want him to be gone, Edward. I'd like to think he hasn't completely left me_."

"_Maybe he hasn't_."

"The offer from Achtung was too good," Ariadne said softly. "And I've always wanted to live in New York City. The city has everything."

"Definitely," Paul agreed. Ariadne looked down at the table.

Dinner wore on, and she listened to Alison and Ethan's laughter, Paul's guttural chuckle, all the while feeling like she was watching the scene through a film. It was like they couldn't touch her. It was like she was completely missing something.

She gazed out the window, where the only lights came from the occasional street light or indoor light. She could see her reflection in the glass, her wide brown eyes almost confused. Even though she was having dinner with her best friend, on a date with a perfectly lovely man... Ariadne couldn't care less.

_Am I a terrible person_? She wondered. A movement across the street caught her eye. She focused on the space under the street light, just in time to see the back of a tall thin man with short brown hair, in a dark gray suit, pass under it.

She was on her feet before she knew it.

"Ari?" Alison stared at her, bewilderment apparent on her face. Ethan looked just as confused, while Paul was concerned.

"Ariadne, are you all right?" He asked.

"I..." She hesitated. "I have to go." And then she was gone, running through the restaurant, ignoring Alison's calls behind her.

It was loud outside, car horns, sirens and the laughter of people enjoying a warm Friday night on the town. Ariadne ignored them all, weaving around pedestrians as she raced after the man in the gray suit, as he walked alone along the sidewalk, his long strides forcing her to move quickly to try and catch up.

"Arthur!" She yelled, waving her arms as she ran. "_Arthur!_"

"_No_! _Oh, please, Arthur, no! I won't leave you_!"

"_Micah, keep going_!"

"_Edward, we have to go back! Arthur's back there_-"

"_Ariadne, listen to me: Arthur Zaleski is dead._"

"_Edward, he might be alive! We can't just leave him!_"

The man continued to walk, either oblivious to her cries or unable to hear her over all the other noise. She watched him enter the subway station, disappearing down the staircase, and she ran after him, her heels clacking furiously. By the time she reached the bottom, the man was already past the turnstile, headed to the platform. Ariadne bent in half and skidded underneath the turnstile, ignoring the hostile glare of an old woman waiting for the subway nearby.

She ran the last few steps, her eyes locked on the man's dark brown hair, and she grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, "Arthur-"

The man turned, alarmed, and her brown eyes met his blue ones. This man also had a handlebar moustache, and a very confused expression.

"Sorry?" He said, hesitant. He glanced down at the hand on his arm and she retracted it quickly.

"Oh," Ariadne whispered, as the train roared into the station. "I'm sorry, sir. You just, um... You looked like someone I used to know."

The man considered this, his expression once more the pitying look Ariadne always got when she spoke of Arthur. "I hope you find him, miss." He gave her a kindly smile and walked away, stepping on the subway. The doors closed and she watched it whirl away from her, the windows showing the other platform across from her, empty, empty, or _wait was that Arthur standing there, smiling, waiting for her_-

The train left the station, and Ariadne was completely alone, eyes locked on the opposite platform, which was just as empty.

"_See you on the other side_."

And suddenly, she was furious.

"If you really wanted me to move on, you'd _leave me alone_!" She screamed, tears threatening to fall down her face. "I mean it, god damn you, Arthur, I can't do this-"

She collapsed, falling to her knees.

"I'm not crazy," Ariadne whispered. "I'm not crazy."

"_You are never alone if you've been loved, Ariadne. And he loved you._"

She decided it was a good night to take a cab home.

**Writing this makes me miss New York so much...**

**Review, please. ****And fess up: who else has the shoebox of mementos from a past relationship?**


	3. Transatlanticism

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers- _cinematherapy_: hang on, there's some more angst we have to get through... _WordsofWhimsy_: thanks! and yes she does _Lazarus76_: thanks! _Iole17_: I think it's more that Alison doesn't realize how much Arthur meant to Ariadne. There's also the fact they're very young, so it's probably difficult to understand a relationship that intense... _MajesticMoments_: wow, practically a review of novel-length! awesome. I'm mostly just putting in every sad/tragic feeling I can think of. And Alison's okay, though I certainly like writing Micah more... good luck studying! _come-what-mayxxx_: yay! thank you, and thanks for reviewing! _Ambray_: thanks! _recey2010_: hey, welcome back! thank you**

**Chapter title from one of my favorite songs of all time, by Death Cab for Cutie. Beautiful.**

Transatlanticism

Saturday, May 11, 2013: New York City, New York: Dr. Moroni's Office: Ariadne

"So, Ariadne... What's new?"

It was just after noon, and Ariadne was curled up in a red leather armchair in Dr. Moroni's office in Midtown. The office was on the fourth floor, with a decent view of a brick building and cars racing by on the street below. Sitting across from her was Dr. Moroni, in the exact same armchair, dressed in a sweater and khaki slacks, surveying her, his pen at the ready on a pad of yellow lined paper.

"You know," Ariadne murmured. "You're probably the only psychologist I've ever heard of that works on the weekend."

"Well," Dr. Moroni replied airily. "My clients have strange schedules."

Dr. Moroni was one of the few psychologists in the world who specialized in dreams and were aware of the immense power of lucid dreaming and the espionage that could come from it. Professor Miles had recommended to her, after she'd left Paris and her psychologist there, Dr. Marcel. After Ariadne told him she would see Dr. Moroni, Professor Miles called him to give him a summary of what had happened: Cobb's ultimatum, the job, Browning, and Arthur.

Ariadne looked down at her hands, picking at her nails idly, her common nervous habit. She really didn't feel like talking about Arthur today.

Dr. Moroni was still watching her, his face kind and composed. She liked Dr. Moroni, she really did, and normally she cherished the hour she spent with him, unashamedly spewing her guts about how much she missed Arthur. But today...

"You seem more agitated than normal," Dr. Moroni remarked. "Did something happen?"

She could always count on Dr. Moroni to notice any change in her demeanor. Ariadne sighed, but still couldn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the window.

"I saw him last night," she murmured.

Dr. Moroni shifted, and Ariadne couldn't help but glance at him, seeing him shuffle through his papers for his notes from the last time she'd seen Arthur. She turned away when she spotted the photograph of Arthur she'd provided Dr. Moroni at his request.

"Ah," Dr. Moroni said softly. "What happened?"

"Alison and her boyfriend set me up with one of Ethan's co-workers," Ariadne explained. "His name is Paul, and he's... He's great, really, very sweet and polite... Anyway, we were all out to dinner, and things were fine, when I suddenly realized how much I... _didn't care_." She hesitated, looking back at Dr. Moroni, who was taking notes diligently. "Does that make me a terrible person?"

He shook his head. "As I have told you many times, Ariadne... You are still recovering from a tremendous and difficult loss. Your behavior is perfectly normal for someone in that position."

It seemed like an evasive answer, but still gave Ariadne some comfort. "Alright, then. Anyway, I was thinking about that, and just looking out the window, and I saw this man walking down the street, and he was wearing a suit and he had short brown hair and he looked like Arthur, and I... I left them and ran outside, after him."

"What did Alison say?"

"I heard her calling my name," Ariadne said quietly. "But I didn't care, I _couldn't_ answer... I thought it was Arthur, you see."

"It wasn't?" Dr. Moroni's pen paused, his surprise evident.

"Well, I caught up to him-"

"Ah," Dr. Moroni said, nodding. "I see."

"It was this older man," Ariadne continued. "Definitely not Arthur. He was really nice about the whole thing, I apologized, I told him I thought he was someone I used to know, and he... He, uh, told me he hoped I'd find him."

Dr. Moroni nodded again. "And then Arthur appeared."

"He was standing on the opposite platform," Ariadne murmured. "I could see him through the windows of the train, smiling at me... But when the train left, no one was there." She paused. "Dr. Moroni, am I crazy? Like, schizophrenic, or something?"

Dr. Moroni set his pen down and knitted the fingers of his hands together, surveying Ariadne carefully.

"No," he said firmly. "Ariadne, you are most definitely not crazy."

"Then what-"

"We have very limited research," Dr. Moroni interrupted, "on what happens to dreamers following the deaths of loved ones. From what you've told me of your friend, Dominic Cobb-" For she had talked about Dom, when she'd given Dr. Moroni the full history of her relationship with Arthur, which included the job she met him on "-Mr. Cobb seems to have experienced a common reaction to the loss of his wife. He turned her into a shade, helped along by his repeated immersions into his memories of her. I've seen other dreamers who turned their deceased loved ones into similar shades, who commonly appeared in their dreams."

Ariadne frowned. "Well, okay... And I see Arthur in my dreams, too, but he's not really a _shade_. Well, sometimes he is," she added, recalling the first dream with Miles, when Arthur tore the roses apart. "But I want to know what you think is going on with me," Ariadne continued. "You said Dom had a common reaction- so is my reaction... uncommon? And why me?"

"I spoke to Dr. Marcel once you had decided to work with me," Dr. Moroni said. "And we established that between the two of us, we'd had three other patients who experienced grief like you."

"And what does that mean? 'Grief like me'?"

"Arthur Zaleski does not merely haunt your dreams," Dr. Moroni said softly. "He haunts your reality as well. You see him doing commonplace things; walking down the street, sitting in restaurants, wandering through shops, riding and waiting for the subway. And while this may seem a much better alternative than Arthur actively tormenting you in your reality by appearing as a threatening, devious, lethal figure, in a way, it's almost _worse_. Because, by appearing as you remember him, he is making it very difficult for you to determine if he is real or not." He frowned. "This is not helped by the way Arthur died; if you'd gotten to see his body, or _witnessed_ his death directly, you would know, without a doubt, he was dead. But your uncertainty and hope that he may be alive somewhere makes this very complicated indeed."

Ariadne took a deep breath. "So, my seeing Arthur when I'm awake is what's weird."

Dr. Moroni smiled. "Unusual, but not unheard of."

"Okay; but why do I see him when I'm awake?"

"Most deaths in dream work are accidental," Dr. Moroni said. "Murder by the client, to make sure the loose ends are severed, or murder by the people whom the job was either done on, or who will experience negative repercussions of a successful mission. The point is, the majority of my patients who experienced a loss hold no guilt.

"Then there are situations like Mr. Cobb's," Dr. Moroni continued. "Where he was directly involved in the death of his wife. He orchestrated the heist that ultimately placed the idea in her mind that her world wasn't real; thus, she killed herself in her mad desire to 'wake up.' But Mr. Cobb was never haunted by his wife in reality, and I have a theory on this. I believe, because Mr. Cobb himself masterminded what led to his wife's death, he retained some self-control, and thus, control over his life and the situation. Certainly, his wife was a shade and a force in his dreams and the dreams of others-for that's where he did it, where he lost her. And so he could always remember in reality, that he wasn't capable of incepting an idea in his wife's mind in _real life_."

Ariadne took a deep breath. "So you're saying… I don't have control."

"You have control," Dr. Moroni said slowly. "Though it doesn't help that Arthur completely took control of the situation from you, preventing you and your team from interfering in his death... But the other people who have lost loved ones in dream work, including Mr. Cobb, are _certain of what happened_. They know exactly who did it, who's to blame, how it came to be. You are uncertain, Ariadne, for you don't know those answers _without a single trace of doubt_. Nothing is certain. They can solve the puzzle of their loved one's death. You don't even have pieces."

There was silence as Ariadne considered Dr. Moroni's theory. To her, it made sense: she couldn't say anything about Arthur's death without wondering if it was true. She never knew the names of the men who shot them, who pushed him down the elevator, who tracked down his body, who hid it before the paramedics, including Arthur's own twin brother, arrived on the scene. And therefore… She couldn't say without any trace of doubt that Arthur was even dead.

She opened her mouth to describe this epiphany, but found a completely different sentence coming out: "I used the PASIV yesterday."

Dr. Moroni looked aghast. "Ariadne! I've told you this before, many times: _do not use the PASIV_. I can't think of any single thing more detrimental to your recovery." He scribbled down a note furiously but paused, and sighed. "But do tell me what happened."

So Ariadne described her dream on the Seine, Arthur's fast appearance, his proposal. She talked about how Eames, Cobb, Micah and Yusuf arrived, and how she realized it was a dream. She slowed, working hard to keep her emotions in check, when she told Dr. Moroni what dream-Arthur's last words had been to her.

He nodded slowly. "That's exactly what your issue is here, Ariadne. Your mind is projecting your own doubts through your very own Achilles' heel: your projection of Arthur. You trusted him more than anyone else; his very being signals strong emotions in you, like warmth, belonging, love." Ariadne nodded, numbly confirming what Dr. Moroni already knew. He frowned, running a hand through his hair. "Your mind is behaving quite deviously, Ariadne. Your projection of Arthur suggesting he's still alive… Remarkable. Your brain is fascinating."

Ariadne rolled her eyes, spinning around in her chair and setting her feet firmly on the ground, staring directly at the psychologist. "Look, Dr. Moroni. You need to tell me what I need to do here. I can't do this anymore. He's _everywhere_. He's…" She sighed. "You say I'm not crazy, but I swear, if he keeps saying shit like 'maybe I'm still here' or appearing on the street like everything's normal, I am going to _believe him_. And if that happens… He _will_ drive me crazy. I can guarantee that."

"I know one way we can begin," Dr. Moroni said. "Let's stop referring to Arthur as Arthur."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Repeat after me." Ariadne rolled her eyes again and Dr. Moroni scowled. "Work with me, please, Ariadne. Repeat after me."

Ariadne sighed, but nodded.

Dr. Moroni looked her in the eye. "_Arthur Zaleski is dead_."

"What? Dr. Moroni, I-"

"Don't even," he said sharply. "Don't tell me you already know that, or that this is silly. We just established you don't know for certain Mr. Zaleski is dead."

"But you don't either," Ariadne murmured.

Dr. Moroni sighed. "No, I don't. But for all intents and purposes, he is. It's been eighteen months, Ariadne. And you didn't come here for help in believing he will come back. You're here to let him go. Now, you just asked me, quite alarmingly, I will add, for immediate help. This is me, doing just that. One more time: repeat after me. _Arthur Zaleski is dead_."

Ariadne licked her lips, her eyes closing as she spoke. "Arthur Zaleski is dead."

_The bullet buried itself in his chest, his heart bursting like a firework of the darkest shade of red, his hands slackened, he was letting go, he was falling, HE WAS FALLING and she couldn't even scream his name_-

"The Arthur I see is not real. He is not real. He is not in my dreams and he is not in reality."

She took a deep breath. "The Arthur I see is not real. He is not real. He is not in my dreams and he is not in reality."

_His hands were tied, his cheek bright red with the punch he took for her _he always took the blows for her, he always protected her _but he was still smiling, still looking at her like she was the world, the only thing in his universe and _"Everyone dies alone, Ari," _his voice sounds like fire and ice to her, soothing and lethal, and she wished she'd told him that_-

"Arthur Zaleski is dead. I see his ghost. Ghosts aren't real. The Arthur I see is not Arthur. I want to move on."

"Arthur Zaleski is dead," Ariadne said, more firmly. "I see his ghost. Ghosts aren't real. The Arthur I see is not Arthur. I want to move on."

_They're lying side by side in a dream she designed and he dreamed, his face is so serious and he's kissing her hair and speaking softly to her and she's clinging to him, listening as he says, "_Remember what I told you," _and she's thinking of course I will, I'll remember everything about you but her voice says otherwise and he backtracks, clarifying, "_Remember that I loved you." _Will you remember that I loved you, too?_

"Ariadne, stay with me. Repeat after me: I want to move on. I am ready to move on. I am letting Arthur go."

"I…"

_His face, his beautiful face, speaking to her through a camera, recorded weeks previously- _"Move on. Find someone else. Marry someone else, have children with someone else."- _Arthur, shut up, let me speak_- "I want you to be happy, and I want you to live. Do all the things you wanted to. Finish your degree. Build a cathedral. Dream again, if you'd like." -_Arthur, I really need to tell you that I love you, please, I need to do this, don't_- "I love you, and I don't regret a thing. Hopefully I died saving you. I hope you know that I know it was worth it." -_Oh, God, it wasn't worth it, I WASN'T WORTH IT-_ "I really don't want to live without you, mostly because I don't know how to. I don't really change, Ari, but you changed me." _-Arthur, I need you to come back right now, you've changed me so much, you've taken everything with you, I can't remember how to do this_-

"Ariadne?" Dr. Moroni's voice was coming from somewhere far away. All Ariadne could see was Arthur's face on her television, his last gift to her: his last words.

_All she wants to do is dive through the television, she can practically touch him, she just wants to run very fast to him, she knows he's _right there, not very far, right there, _but she still hears his voice in the video: "_But it's time to let me go, Ari_."_

_She's more startled than anything else, her lips bruised and confused from his sudden kiss, his blood coats her hands and her shirt, his hands on her face, his smile brilliant and he's saying her name, her name, it used to mean something to her_-

_"It's time to let me go."_

"I KNOW!" Her eyes snapped open of their own accord, and Ariadne was surprised to see that she was still in Dr. Moroni's office. Dr. Moroni was staring at her, and Ariadne was bewildered to see an empty plastic cup in his hand. She glanced down and gasped: her face and t-shirt were soaked.

Dr. Moroni breathed a sigh of relief and shuffled away, grabbing a handful of tissues and presenting them to her.

"I'm sorry," he apologized as Ariadne tried to mop herself up. "But you weren't responding. It was the almost bizarre; you looked like you were having some sort of fit."

Ariadne blushed. "Sorry. Um. I just got caught up, thinking…" Dr. Moroni waited, and when she didn't continue, he sighed.

"I think that's enough for today."

It was a long subway ride home.

Ariadne kept to herself, her knees pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She kept her eyes focused on the floor, ignoring the other passengers around her. She'd pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up all the way, hiding her face, just to make sure her vibe of _leave me alone_ was clearly understood.

And to also hide her tears.

She felt like she'd run a marathon she hadn't trained a day for. Professor Miles had warned her that therapy for dreamers was always rough and difficult, due to the depth of dreams themselves. She'd all but ignored his warnings, certain that she could handle anything thrown her way. But she'd never felt more wrong.

Ariadne got off on her stop, carrying her book bag and hiding her hands in the pockets of her jeans. She moved slowly, climbing the stairs to the surface with none of the speed she normally used, always eager to get back to her apartment.

She entered her apartment building and paused at the mailboxes, numbly pulling what was inside out and putting it all under her arm without so much as a glance. As she walked towards the stairs she paused and looked at the elevator.

She hadn't used an elevator in eighteen months. It was easy to understand why.

For a moment, she considered getting on the elevator and letting it carry her to the fourth floor, to her apartment. Alison did it every day. It was easy enough. All she had to do was press the button, and-

She went to the stairs.

_Worth a shot_, she thought to herself as she climbed. And promptly began humming a song to distract herself. She was still humming as she unlocked her apartment door.

She was greeted by a blast of music, the radio playing today's top 50 hits. Ariadne kicked her beaten Converse off at the door and walked to the kitchen counter. Alison was dancing in the kitchen, in the midst of baking a cake, of all things.

"Hey Ari!" She called cheerfully. "How was Dr. Moron?"

Alison had never gone to a therapy session in her life, and so referred to all psychiatrists and psychologists and therapists as psychos themselves. It didn't help that Dr. Moroni's name, Italian as it was, was too easy to twist.

"Mail's here," Ariadne said in lieu of a response. She set the pile down, glancing at what was on top. "Looks like you got your new issue of Cosmo."

"Ooh!" Alison squealed, dropping her mixing spoon and seizing the catalogue. Rihanna pounding in her ears, Ariadne continued to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She dropped her book bag on the floor and slid to the ground, her back against the door.

_Maybe he is a psycho,_ she thought. Her eyes slid around the room (pointedly ignoring the area under her bed, where a certain shoebox remained) before settling on her closet. And an idea struck her.

Ariadne leapt to her feet, skidding to the closet in her polka-dotted socks. She pulled the rickety door open and knelt down, shoving sneakers, boots and heels aside as she reached for the back, not standing up until she'd founder box of mittens and gloves.

She walked to her bed and sat, and began to eagerly toss out gloves and mittens, not caring where they landed. She stopped when she found a small pair of red mittens. Ariadne considered them for a moment before turning the left hand mitten upside down.

A small plastic bag of white pills fell out.

There weren't many: only four left, to be exact. Ariadne had bought the sleeping pills on the black market, as they were a heavy duty brand (recommended to her by Eames, of course) that were currently not FDA approved, and were imported from somewhere in Asia. She knew that Alison, and probably everyone else she knew, would freak out over them, worried for her safety. But Ariadne was smart about her medication usage. And they worked wonders: she only needed one to fall asleep in five minutes.

It wasn't like she was going to kill herself. Not when someone had died for her to live.

_Today's one of those days_, she thought. She took one of the pills from the bag. She neatly returned everything as it was to her closet, yanked down the hood of her sweatshirt and shuffled out of the room to get a glass of water.

Alison was carefully herding the chocolate cake batter into a pan when Ariadne entered the kitchen, squeezing past her to get to the sink.

"_-together…_ Oh gosh, I love Maroon 5," Alison said, breaking off the karaoke session when she noticed Ariadne. Ariadne didn't comment at first, intent on swallowing the pill without attracting her best friend's attention. She succeeded and set the glass down.

"Hey, Alison, I'm going to take a nap," she said. "Maybe halt the singing for a little bit, please?"

"I probably should, the manager came up here with a noise complaint once already," Alison agreed, setting the pan down. As she walked to the radio she added, "Oh, Ari, you got a letter."

"From where?"

"No return address."

Ariadne hesitated, and then picked up the remaining mail. She flicked through the bills before settling on what Alison was talking about: a thick business-sized envelope addressed to Ariadne Chopin, stamped in New York.

"Odd," she muttered. She carefully slid it open. Out fell three things: a piece of printer paper and two Polaroid photographs.

Her eyes naturally went to the photographs first. She nearly fell over.

The first showed a hand holding up a copy of the New York Times. The date was from yesterday; she remembered reading the newspaper herself. Just behind the photograph was a man leaning against a fence railing, surrounded by miles of dead brown grass, or maybe fields post-harvest. He was wearing a long black peacoat and dark jeans, a black ski hat pulled down over his head. But she distinctly recognized his profile, the hands curled around his forearms.

She couldn't breathe as she forced her eyes to turn to the second picture.

It was much closer, showing the man from his shoulders up. His skin was light, pale, and the bruises were distinct on his skin. She looked at the features she could still remember clearly, the ones she saw whenever she closed her eyes: his straight nose, high cheekbones, smooth forehead, the occasional freckle on his face, his curved lips… She couldn't see his hair, as it was hidden beneath the hat. But his eyes…Those eyes that reminded her of auburn, the eyes she was always falling into, awake and asleep, eyes that had haunted her for over a year.

The edge of the newspaper was barely visible, the date there for her to see: May 9, 2013.

_How is this real?_ Ariadne thought desperately. She forced herself to look away from the photos as she found the sheet of paper that had come with them. It was in neat, typed writing:

_Ms. Chopin-_

_As you can see, I have something that once belonged to you. _

_Would you like him back?_

_If so, gather together Dominic Cobb and Edward Eames and be at Sheremetyevo International Airport on May 16, 2013, by 14:00 hours. If you are there, I will find you._

_We might be able to work out a deal. He is no longer of value to me, so if this deal of ours does not work out, I will dispose of him. I pray you do not try to test me or that you believe me to be bluffing. I am not sure your beloved can handle any more of my displeasure._

_For his sake, I hope to see you soon._

_Nikolai Volkov._

"Ariadne? Ariadne? Oh my god!"

It was only then that Ariadne was aware she'd fallen, the piece of paper still clutched in her hands. She stared at the ceiling, her entire being frozen. It couldn't be true… This wasn't happening…

"_Arthur Zaleski is dead. I see his ghost. Ghosts aren't real_…"

Alison's terrified face swam over hers as the sleeping pill took affect and her world turned to black.

**BAM. Reason to rejoice/review, maybe?**

**Disclaimer: I HAVE been to many therapy sessions with both therapists and psychologists and psychiatrists. Those sessions are nothing like the one I wrote with Dr. Moroni. I just imagine that a therapy session with someone who's dealt as extensively in lucid dreaming as Ariadne, who also experienced an incredible loss directly related to it, might need something pretty radical. So in a nutshell: real-life therapy is swell. This is not real-life therapy. I don't even think we'll see Dr. Moroni again at this point.**

**Review, please**


	4. Don't Carry It All

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers make my dreams come true- _MajesticMoments_: I couldn't start with the note right away, I needed some background and explanation for what her situation was. Alison's reaction is coming up. And yay for Micah! If you liked him, well... read on... ;) I LOVE novel-length reviews. Love love love em. thank you! _iAreawesome_: thanks for the comment! here you go! _Guest: _I'm glad you liked the therapy scene, that took a while to write/think through. A note regarding Arthur is below, thanks for the question! _Knuckiducki: _blah I'll try! Writer's block has me down... interesting theory though! _theonlyreadhead_: haha thank you! _In. Blue. 85_: Alison does seem pretty annoying, I understand. and I think you'll like this chapter... _Paradoxical Fish_: thanks! Glad you liked "To Lose My Life." I love this song too. :) _gina1276_: thanks for reviewing!**

**Guest asked when Arthur will enter the story. If I follow my outline, he'll turn up (physically) in chapter eight.**

**Chapter title from the song by the Decemberists.**

**And get ready to say hello to an old friend…!**

Don't Carry It All

Sunday, May 12, 2013: New York City, New York: Ariadne's Apartment: Ariadne

Ariadne sat in her favorite patchwork chair, just under the window, staring outside at the pouring rain.

It was one of those terrible spring rain storms, the kind that both signaled winter's last furious breath and the coming sigh of relief that would be the sweet period of warm weather until the nasty humidity of a New York summer.

Ariadne loved New York in the rain. While many other cities tended to slow when the weather turned ugly, New York didn't. Taxis still speeded, subways still chugged, and pedestrians still ran and meandered and tourists took blurry, watery photographs.

On the other side of the apartment, Alison had the evening news on, listening to the anchor's chatter half-heartedly, most of her attention focused instead on the lasagna she was cooking for dinner. Every now and then, she would glance up at Ariadne, hurriedly looking away when Ariadne caught her worried stare.

The morning had been far from pleasant.

Ariadne had woken in a hospital bed, immediately blinded by the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. Alison, snoring lightly, was in the chair beside her bed, her face pressed against Ariadne's leg. When Ariadne tapped her cheek and woken her up, she'd squealed and tackled her in a hug.

After Ariadne had passed out the night before, Alison had panicked, calling 911 and trying to wake Ariadne using everything she could think of, from buckets of water to brutal slaps on the face with the back of a wooden spoon. When nothing worked, her anxiety had become paramount, to the point she'd also been treated at the hospital, given a sedative to calm her.

Of course, Alison didn't know about Ariadne's special sleeping pills.

So Alison couldn't tell the paramedics what Ariadne had actually taken. Instead, she'd gone through a list of possibilities, listing every known over-the-counter sleeping pill under the sun. She'd also braved calling Dr. Moroni to ask if he'd prescribed a sleeping drug for Ariadne. A stunned Dr. Moroni said he hadn't, and soon joined Alison at the hospital to see if he could be of any help.

Another thing Alison and the doctors didn't know was Ariadne's dream work, meaning they weren't looking for signs of an unnatural REM sleep that could suggest Ariadne was either trapped in a dream or on her way to limbo. And Dr. Moroni, who could only think of his disastrous appointment with Ariadne, was all but convinced she'd sent herself to a permanent limbo where she could live with her projection of Arthur.

So when Ariadne woke Alison to ask what time it was, it made sense for Alison to freak out and for the nurses to look pleased and Dr. Moroni to gasp sighs of relief when Alison called to tell him she was fine, and that she had, in fact, not dreamed at all.

Which tipped Dr. Moroni off that Ariadne had been using a black market sedative to sleep. Not wanting to get her in legal trouble, he'd only told Alison, warning her to keep an eye on Ariadne and to convince her to bring the pills to him, so he could determine how safe they were.

Sure enough, after they were sent home following hours of paperwork, Alison had demanded that Ariadne show her what she'd taken. A resigned and guilty Ariadne had revealed her secret stash, which Alison took great care to neatly place in their bathroom cabinet.

"Ariadne Grace Chopin, I swear to god, if you ever do anything like that to me again I will call your parents," Alison had then threatened, looking both tearful and pissed. "And then I'll kill you myself. You scared the hell out of me!"

"I'm sorry," Ariadne had apologized profusely. They had looked at each other, and then Alison collapsed in Ariadne's arms, sobbing.

And of course, there'd been the awkward moment when Alison had tried to ask Ariadne about the diamond ring on the necklace she wore. Ariadne was all but certain that Alison, and Dr. Moroni, knew who had given it to her, and so she hadn't said a word.

That led to Ariadne curled in the chair, and Alison cooking dinner.

"Okay," Alison called suddenly. "We're ready to eat."

Ariadne nodded, but didn't move from her spot. She listened as Alison turned the television off and served up the lasagna. There was a moment's pause and then Alison walked to Ariadne, shoving a plate of lasagna under her nose.

"Thanks," Ariadne mumbled, feebly. She still felt guilty and embarrassed; Alison was her best friend. She couldn't imagine how terrified she must've been when she'd thought Ariadne hadn't woken up after fainting.

She was surprised when Alison sat on the floor in front of her, her own plate of lasagna in her hands. She began to eat like this was a completely normal dining situation, and Ariadne followed her lead. Silence fell, until-

"Okay," Alison said, setting her fork and knife down and resting the plate on the carpet. "Out with it, Ariadne."

Ariadne swallowed. "Come again?"

Alison shot her a shrewd look, and then leapt to her feet. She stomped over to the counter and retrieved the envelope, holding it aloft and glaring at Ariadne.

Ariadne blushed. "Oh. That."

"Yes, _that_," Alison snapped. She marched back to Ariadne, opening the envelope as she went. She held up the photographs and waved them at Ariadne. "Who the fuck is this? And why does this… _Nikolai Volkov_ think you want to help him? I mean," Alison tossed her blond hair back and tore the letter from the envelope, letting the photographs fall to the floor. Ariadne's eyes followed their descent. "'I am not sure your beloved can handle any more of my displeasure'; what does that _mean_? 'Your beloved', _ha_. You haven't loved anyone since-"

"Yes."

Alison stilled, looking at Ariadne in confusion. "What?"

"You're right," Ariadne whispered. "I haven't loved anyone since Arthur."

"Yeah…"

"Alison," Ariadne moaned. "Alison, _that_ is Arthur." She nodded at the photographs on the floor, and the two of them stared at them for a minute.

"That's _Arthur_?" Alison repeated, shocked. "You mean to say… That this bloody, beaten, battered mess is your ridiculously attractive supposedly-_dead_ boyfriend?"

"I know how it sounds-"

Alison snatched the photographs up, holding them to the light for a better view. "You're nuts, Ari. I met Arthur, I remember what he looks like, and this isn't him."

Ariadne sighed. "I know he looks different. But Alison… This Volkov guy, he's been doing who knows what to him, for who knows how long? As long as eighteen months, he could've been tortured, beaten-" She broke off, taking a shaky breath.

"I don't see it," Alison said firmly, lowering the photographs. "I think someone's messing with you. Besides, why would someone do that to Arthur? He was a really nice guy, and for a business lawyer he was unfairly handsome, but I mean, there really is no reason for anyone to hurt him! It's not like he was a… I don't know, a bad guy-"

"Fine," Ariadne hissed. She got up, ignoring Alison's protests, and strode to her room. Alison followed in her wake, trying to cajole her into returning to the living room, apologizing for upsetting her. Ariadne didn't stop until she'd reached her bed. She got on her knees, stretching her arm out.

"Ari, come on," Alison said beseechingly, the photographs and letter clenched in her hand. "Stand up so we can talk about this!"

She broke off when Ariadne pulled the shoebox out. Ariadne looked up at her.

Alison looked bewildered. "…Shoes?"

"No," Ariadne whispered. "Alison, I need to tell you something." She patted the space beside her and Alison sat, hesitant.

"Ari, I-" Her voice trailed away as Ariadne lifted the lid, revealing the contents. Moving mechanically, Ariadne pulled the photographs and began laying them on the carpet.

"Ari," Alison murmured. She'd reached into the box and was turning over one of Arthur's ties, a navy blue one, in her hands, her eyes wide. "Ari, what is all this?"

"This is all I have left," Ariadne said. "These are items and memories from my relationship with Arthur." She finished laying out the photos and sat back, studying them, as Alison reached into the box and pulled out the bottle of aftershave, holding it gingerly. "Alison, look at the pictures. Look at his eyes."

Alison studied the photos as Ariadne pulled the new Polaroids from Alison's hands, laying them at the front. Having known Arthur so intimately for so long, it'd taken Ariadne seconds to recognize his profile and features. But Alison had only met Arthur a handful of times, and only when he was immaculately dressed.

Alison gasped suddenly. She seized a photograph of Arthur and Ariadne, taken on New Year's Eve. They were sitting at a table littered with confetti, and while Ariadne was laughing, Arthur was more composed, still not into the swing of the celebration. Alison held up the photo, comparing it to the second Polaroid, the close up one.

"Good Lord," she whispered. "It's him."

Ariadne nodded, smiling slightly. "Yeah. I know. He's alive."

_He's alive_.

But before Ariadne could relish in the moment, Alison spoke again.

"But, Ari… _Why?_" She asked, staring at her best friend. "Who is Volkov? What does he want with Arthur, and you?"

Ariadne sighed. "That's what I need to tell you. But remind me: what do you know about Arthur?"

Alison frowned. "He was seven years older than you. He was an American, like me, but he was from California. You met when you did that internship with Professor Miles' friend; Arthur was a friend of Professor Miles' friend, and he introduced you. Arthur was a lawyer for some corporation… I don't remember which… And he worked in Paris. He spoke French fluently. He didn't like talking about the past or his family. He was crazy in love with you."

"How did he die?"

"Ari, why-"

"Please, Alison, just answer the question: how did he die?"

Alison looked suspicious, but continued. "Well, you got another internship, but this one was in Los Angeles. And Arthur decided to come with you. And he was killed in a car accident…" She trailed off. "Which you weren't present for, and you never even got to see his body…"

"Alison," Ariadne murmured. "Arthur didn't die in a car accident."

"Well, clearly-"

"No, wait. What I mean is… There never _was_ a car accident."

"_What_?"

Ariadne took a deep breath. "Everything you know about Arthur is true, except for his profession and how we met. Professor Miles introduced me to his son-in-law, Dominic Cobb. Cobb is an extractor. He extracts ideas and information from the subconscious, by entering dreams."

Alison's jaw dropped. "Dreams? Like… What?"

Ariadne jumped up and retrieved the PASIV from her closet. "This is called a PASIV. It uses a drug called somnacin, and when you're hooked up to it, you experience lucid dreaming. And if you're skilled enough, you can manipulate the dreams of others in what is called dream work, dream theft, etcetera. Cobb needed me to be the architect for the dream; that means that I designed the dream."

"I'm guessing Arthur wasn't Cobb's lawyer," Alison said dryly.

"Arthur was a point man," Ariadne said. "It basically means he runs the dream while Cobb extracts. Sometimes that means he has to take down projections, which are part of the subconscious and can be very dangerous." Ariadne sighed. "None of this is legal, by the way; that's why I never told you."

"I'm just… gosh," Alison murmured. She looked at the PASIV. "Can we do it now? Dream?"

Ariadne shook her head. "No. Well, you could. I can't."

"Why?"

"I only dream of Arthur," Ariadne whispered. "He always turns up in my dreams, my projection of him. Sometimes he's just like he was, other times he's… Deadly. None of it's good for my recovery, anyway."

"I can't believe you were living with a criminal," Alison chortled. There was a pause and she added, "Well, not just living, I guess. You were engaged to him."

Ariadne sighed. "I didn't know. I found the ring after he died. I didn't know he had it. And as for being a criminal," Ariadne said hurriedly. "It wasn't exactly like that. Arthur retired from dream work when he decided he wanted to be with me. It's a really dangerous business, you see. He wanted to protect me."

Alison frowned. "But you didn't retire, did you? That's why you were in Los Angeles, wasn't it?"

"Cobb and Arthur were really close friends," Ariadne said. "On the job where Arthur and I met, we made the heir to Fischer-Morrow energy decide to take down the company in a process known as inception."

"I kind of remember that," Alison said hesitantly. "Everyone was really surprised… Now I see why."

"Yeah," Ariadne said. "Well, this man called Browning who basically ran the company, was furious. He realized what had happened and he kidnapped Cobb's children in order to blackmail Cobb into reversing it."

"That's awful!"

"Yeah, it is. So Cobb went to Paris because he knew Arthur was in Paris. He didn't know we were together, and he wasn't planning on finding me, as a favor to Miles. But Arthur… He couldn't do the job. He was still wanted by many dangerous people around the world, and he'd been trying to lose the tails they had on him for a year. So Cobb told him that if he didn't agree to the job, he'd essentially give his girlfriend, me, to Cobol Energy, which desperately wanted Arthur himself… And so Arthur had to do the job. But we knew I was in too much danger to stay in Paris, so I agreed as well."

"Jesus," Alison mumbled. "Ari-"

"Hang on, I'm not done. The job was… difficult. A reverse-inception was pretty much unheard of. But we had to try, for Cobb's children, and well, Arthur was doing it for me, really. But he knew someone was going to die; Arthur's very smart… And so he… Well, he…"

Alison leaned forward as Ariadne began to cry, turning her head away from the photographs and mementos.

"Ari," Alison murmured. "He died for you, didn't he?"

"A-After the job," Ariadne choked, determined to finish the story. Alison needed to know… "We w-woke up and his h-hands… They were tied, h-he was t-trapped… But w-we got away and I t-thought we could m-make it, but t-they got him. They s-shot him, t-twice, and p-pushed him down an e-elevator…"

"That's why you hate elevators," Alison finished. "Oh, God, Ari, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"I know," Ariadne whispered. She wiped her eyes, disentangling herself from Alison's arms. "Alison, I miss him so much. And now… _He's alive_?"

"It appears so," Alison murmured, gently returning the photographs Ariadne couldn't bear to see to the shoebox, and tucking the tie in around them. "Oh, Ari… What are you going to do?"

Ariadne sighed, finally acknowledging the crumpled letter on the floor. "I don't know."

After dinner, Ariadne and Alison curled up on their living room couch, eating most of the cake from yesterday and watching re-runs of "Friends."

"I love being in Manhattan and watching this at the same time," Alison gushed. "It makes it so much more… attainable, you know?"

"What part of that would you like to attain?" Ariadne asked incredulously. "You have a great career, a caring boyfriend-"

"-A ridiculously wonderful best friend," Alison interjected.

Ariadne laughed. "Can't forget that."

"I wouldn't dare."

A knock at the door caused both women to stop laughing and exchange a bemused glance.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Alison asked.

Ariadne shook her head. "No…"

Alison suddenly blanched. "Oh my god. What if it's that Volkov guy? What do we do?"

"I doubt it's that Volkov guy," Ariadne said. But Alison's mention of the name caused Ariadne to wonder if it was possible that Arthur-but it couldn't be…

She stood up. "I'll look through the peephole."

"Be quiet! I'll turn the volume up to hide your footsteps."

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Real sneaky, Alison."

She shuffled over to the door, the automated laugh track blaring throughout the small space. At the door, Ariadne stood on her toes, placing her hands on either side of the door to balance herself as she looked through the hole.

A moment later she threw the door open.

On the threshold stood a tall young man with bright red hair and large blue eyes that were partially obscured by thin framed glasses. His face was covered in freckles, but he was smiling, somehow shy and not intimidating in the slightest, even in the classic black suit complete with dark red tie he was wearing.

"Hello, Ariadne," he said.

She beamed, her breath coming up short. "Micah."

And then she tackled him, hugging him tightly. He hugged her back just as strongly, laughing at her response to the sight of him.

"Micah!" Ariadne repeated with more force as it became apparent that Micah was actually there. "Oh Micah, how are you? It's so good to see you!"

She stepped back and pulled the door open all the way so Micah could walk inside. He wasn't carrying anything and entered hesitantly, hands in his pockets. Alison slowly rose from the couch, confusion evident on her features.

"Oh, Alison," Ariadne said quickly. "This is a good friend of mine, Micah Harper. Micah, this is my roommate and my best friend, Alison Fletcher."

"Hi," Alison called.

Micah nodded. "Hey."

"Come in, come in," Ariadne said, urging Micah to take a seat at the counter, which he did, looking around the apartment. "Would you like something to eat, or drink? Alison and I were having cake, it's very fresh, she made it yesterday. We have tea, milk, orange juice, water, I could make coffee-"

"Ariadne," Micah said firmly. "Take a breath."

Ariadne sighed, realizing how quickly she'd been speaking. "I'm sorry."

He smirked. "Don't worry about it. I'm glad to see you too, by the way."

She smiled. "Micah, what are you doing in New York?"

"Well, I just finished my second year at Harvard," Micah explained. "Still chugging away at that doctorate degree. And I got an internship at a research clinic for the next three months. Today was the welcome dinner in Tribeca, hence the monkey costume," he gestured to his suit and Ariadne chuckled. "And I had your address, I got it from Cobb-"

"You've talked to Cobb, then?"

Micah's smile faded. "I talk to all of them, Ariadne. Cobb, Yusuf, Eames. You're the only one who…"

He trailed off, and Ariadne filled in the rest of his sentence: _You're the only one who won't_.

He swallowed audibly. "How have you been, Ariadne?"

"I'm… surviving," she murmured. "Moving to New York has been good for me. I'm working at an architectural firm in the city which is wonderful, I absolutely love it."

"You don't…" Micah glanced around at Alison, and Ariadne quickly realized why.

"She knows everything now. I told her."

"I know about the dreams and the stealing and the needle pricks," Alison confirmed from the couch.

Micah blushed. "Oh, okay. Anyway, Ariadne: You don't go under at all?"

It was Ariadne's turn to blush. "I have… I mean, I try not to, but I still have the PASIV, I couldn't throw it away, not since it belonged to-" She broke off and Micah nodded seriously.

Ariadne swallowed. "How about you?"

"Nothing," Micah said softly. "But it's not like I've really had opportunity, you know? Well," he huffed suddenly. "Eames used to call me about once a week, trying to get me to take a job."

"You said no?"

He shook his head. "No. I was worried…" Micah looked down at his hands for a moment before raising his eyes. Ariadne was swept away by the deep sadness in them.

"You think about him?" She whispered.

"All the time," Micah murmured. "I swear, every day. Right after he… Right after the job, every dream I had included him. He was always there, just at the corner of my eye, but when I turned my head, he was gone. Professor Bristol has been, uh… giving me advice…"

"I'm seeing a therapist who specializes in dreams," Ariadne interjected. Micah relaxed.

"Yeah, alright then," he murmured. "Do you… Do you see him?"

"All the time," Ariadne parroted. "Awake, asleep, it doesn't matter…"

Micah nodded. "I miss him like hell. I didn't even know him very well, but I…" He sighed. "It's almost like I lost my brother."

"He loved you, Micah. I know he did."

Micah groaned. "God, Ariadne, I'm sorry. I must sound so pathetic; I mean, compared to what he meant to you…"

She shook her head. "Grief isn't measured, Micah. We both lost him."

"Well, I'm glad you're doing well enough anyway," Micah said. "With your job and New York and all." He paused and added, "The research clinic I'm interning at is part of the VA. I'm going to train with them so that when I get my Ph.D., I can counsel soldiers."

Ariadne was touched. "Micah…"

"It's for Seth, too," Micah said quietly. "He was a soldier, too. But I can't help… I want to do it because… Even though I couldn't save them, I can save others."

"He would be so proud of you," Ariadne murmured. Micah blinked hurriedly and picked at the countertop.

"Are you talking about Arthur?"

The question came from Alison, who'd joined them in the kitchen. She set her plate in the sink and faced them, crossing her arms over her chest.

"We were," Ariadne confirmed.

Alison bit her lip. "Did you show him the letter?"

Micah frowned. "What letter?"

"Alison-" Ariadne broke off as Alison seized the envelope from where they'd placed it on the counter and slid it to Micah. He carefully opened it, letting the Polaroids fall in front of him.

He gasped, his normally relaxed features distorting into an open-mouthed expression of shock.

"Ariadne," he gasped. "What the _hell_ are these?"

"There's a letter, too," Alison said, nodding at the envelope. Micah raced to find it, unfolding and reading the note in seconds. When he looked at Ariadne again, his eyes were huge.

"He's _alive_?"

"It would appear so," Alison mumbled.

"When did you get these?" Micah demanded, returning to the photos.

Ariadne sighed. "Yesterday. They were in the mail. No return address…"

"Do you know Nikolai Volkov?"

"Never heard of him," Ariadne murmured.

Micah ran a hand through his hair. "I wonder if it's Cobol."

Ariadne stared. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, we all know they've wanted him for a while," Micah said calmly, ignoring Alison's sharp intake of breath. "Dead or alive. Did they ever have to pay for his body, or did they say anything about him…?"

"They never paid for his body," Ariadne said thoughtfully. "That's an idea, Micah."

Micah nodded. "Worth a Google search, I'd imagine." He couldn't take his eyes off the photos. "Holy shit, Ariadne. Arthur's alive. I mean, these are _Polaroids_. You can't digitally manipulate them! Well, I guess you probably could; but someone's gone to great lengths to make them as real as possible by taking Polaroids…" He sighed and took off his glasses, wiping them with his tie. "So, when are we leaving?"

"I'm sorry?"

"When are we leaving," Micah repeated. "We have to go to Chicago to get Cobb, of course; that's a pretty fast flight, maybe three hours? Eames will be tricky… I assume he's in London still? Unless he's working. We should figure that out first-"

"Micah," Ariadne interrupted. "You want to come with me?"

He stared at her. "Of course, Ariadne. I mean…" He shook his head, his expression enthused. "This is what we've been waiting for. We have a second chance to save Arthur!"

She looked at him, taking in his huge blue eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to be shaking. She knew how much he needed this. Ariadne could remember the way Micah cried after they'd watched Arthur fall, the way Micah had hugged him on the second level, the way his eyes shone when Arthur had praised him… Micah had always blamed himself for being unable to save Arthur.

She'd always blamed herself, too.

"Okay, Micah," Ariadne murmured. "Let's get our tickets to Chicago."

**IT'S ON!**

**Review, please**


	5. The Good Left Undone

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers are the best- _Guest: _yay! Get excited! You can hope for a reunion as much as you want, though remember it may not turn out as you expect... _insanityisgenius_: I'm honestly amazed whenever I get one review, so I'm thrilled to have this many! I'm glad you think the writing is still good quality; I feel like it isn't as fluid or effortless as it was with "To Lose My Life" and I worry that will be noticeable. I will do my best to keep you guessing! _Paradoxical Fish_: Yay Micah! I love how you're so happy to see him, considering he's my own character. :D I haven't spent much thought on Alison's future in the story but your comments are definitely interesting to me... _gina1276_: Thanks! reunions coming up. _Majestic Moments_: Hi! I think of Alison as a happy go lucky kinda person, so she was way more calm and logical than your average person about the situation. Yay Micah! Here's some Cobb. And I was in no way offended by your review. I adore honesty.**

**A couple people had a common regarding Ariadne: she seemed very calm for having just found out Arthur was alive. Here's my take on things: I think she was in shock. She passed out right after, and I imagine life turned a bit surreal, waking up in the hospital and all. I feel like she couldn't really comprehend the magnitude of what was going on, and it took Micah's appearance to make her realize what was happening. I hope that makes sense; I wish I'd done a better job at conveying it.**

**Anyway, I broke my wrist recently, and typing even this short message has been awful. I haven't gotten any writing done in a while, though I've got a couple chapters stored up to post.**

**Chapter title from the song by Rise Against. If you listen to it, you'll see what Cobb's mindset is right now.**

The Good Left Undone

Monday, May 13, 2013: Chicago, Illinois: The Cobb House: Cobb

"… Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One." Cobb straightened, pulling away from the wall and opening his eyes. "Ready or not, here I come!"

Cobb surveyed his dining room, his light blue eyes scanning the area swiftly. He ducked down and looked under the dining room table; nothing. He hadn't really expected James to hide in the same place twice, but…

After ascertaining the room was empty, Cobb turned to the hallway to turn into the living room. Sitting on the couch with an open newspaper was his father-in-law, Stephen Miles.

"Any sightings?" Cobb asked cheerfully.

"You'll find no children in this room," Miles replied, without looking up. But his smirk told Cobb otherwise, and sure enough, Cobb could see two pairs of feet peeking out from the bottom of the curtains.

Tip-toeing now, Cobb slowly made his way to the feet, calling loudly, "I guess I'll check the upstairs next!"

"Yes, do that," Miles said, right on cue.

Cobb ducked down and seized the bottom of the curtain, yanking it up in one smooth tug. A burst of giggles emerged, and Cobb found himself falling, landing hard on the thick carpet, two bodies collapsed on top of him.

"You found us!" Squeaked five-year-old James.

"Did you really count from thirty?" Seven-year-old Philippa asked, sounding suspicious.

Cobb laughed. "I did, Pippa, I promise."

"My turn!" James announced.

"Sorry, James," Cobb replied, gently pushing his children off him and sitting up, rubbing the small of his back. "But dad's got to take a break. Why don't you two find something else to do for a little bit, and then we'll have lunch, alright?"

"Okay!" James said, eager to please. He raced out of the room. Philippa hesitated, still frowning at Cobb, before following her brother.

Miles chuckled. "It never ceases to fascinate me how those children can play hide and seek for hours on end."

"They're children," Cobb said, sinking into an armchair next to the couch. "Everything's a game to them."

"I suppose they enjoy their advantage of size."

"Don't you have some papers to grade, Miles?" Cobb asked. "Or would you like to play with them next?"

Miles smirked. "Nope, no papers. And I intend to spend my summer holiday playing every possible, non-action oriented game I can with my grandchildren."

There was a sudden racing of feet and both children burst back into the room. This time, James was brandishing sheets of paper and Philippa was carrying a large tub of crayons.

"Grandpa!" James said. "I haven't shown you my new drawings!"

Miles set down his newspaper and adjusted his glasses. "You have not, James, I've been much looking forward to this occasion."

James scrambled up onto the couch next to Miles, while Philippa laid on her stomach by the fireplace, spreading the crayons out around her.

"This is Pippa," James said brightly, shoving a sheet of paper into Miles' face. Cobb watched, amused, from the armchair; he was always up-to-date on James' artwork.

"So it is," Miles commented. "I like that shade of yellow you've used for her hair, James. Very striking."

"Here's dad," James continued, showing Miles what appeared to be a man with slightly-darker yellow hair. "And me." A short boy in bright red clothes with a shade of yellow as bright as Pippa's for hair.

"Where's the one of me?"

"Here, grandpa!" Miles' hair was a light shade of gray, and James had drawn him surrounded by books, with the Eiffel Tower in the background.

"These are lovely, James," Miles said warmly.

"Wait, there's two more," James said impatiently. "Look, it's Momma!"

Miles' expression barely changed, but Cobb could recognize the irrevocable grief that washed over the older man. Miles looked at the drawing of the black-haired, slender woman for some time.

"So it is," he murmured to James. "A perfect likeness, James. Your mother would love it."

"I know," James agreed.

"And the last…?"

James set down the last sheet of paper. It was a drawing of a tall, thin, dark-brown haired man dressed in a messily drawn black suit. The background was a sunset, and Cobb could recognize the hills and buildings of San Francisco.

"Uncle Arthur," James said.

Philippa crawled over to the table to look at the drawing, while Cobb also leaned forward. His heart was pounding uncomfortably fast as he took in the sight of James' drawing of his deceased best friend.

Philippa shook her head. "You didn't draw him right."

"What?" James asked.

"Uncle Arthur was always frowning," Philippa said quietly. "You drew him smiling. See…"

She picked up a sheet of paper from her own pile of drawings and laid it beside James'.

Cobb had always known Philippa to be a talented artist; she got it from him, and Miles, he supposed. But her uncannily accurate portrait of Arthur, complete with his dark eyes, sharp cheekbones and smooth skin, nearly took his breath away. He half-expected the drawing to tell him to focus on the job.

"Philippa," Miles said sternly. "How did you draw this? Did your father give you a photograph?"

Cobb opened his mouth to deny it; he wasn't even sure he had a photo of Arthur lying around. Nearly all his photos of Arthur included Mal, and he would've had those somewhere out of Philippa's reach... But to his amazement, Philippa's little face turned red.

"When Uncle Arthur was here last," she said quietly. "I took his picture with one of _maman's_ old cameras, and _grandmére_ developed it for me."

"Did Arthur know you had a picture of him?" Cobb asked.

Philippa shook her head. "No. I knew he wouldn't be happy about it."

"Where is this photo now?"

"I'm not telling you," Philippa said angrily. "You'll only hide it away, like you did the pictures of _maman_." And with that, Philippa snatched her drawing up and ran from the room, stomping up the stairs. They waited for her bedroom door to slam before moving again.

"Well, this is very nice, James," Miles said airily. "And your sister isn't completely right. Arthur wasn't always frowning."

"Really?" James asked brightly.

"Really, really," Miles replied. "I remember him smiling very much on your parents' wedding day. Your mother told him how handsome he looked in his best man's suit, and Arthur turned as red as a tomato."

James laughed. "No way!"

"Indeed, I swear it," Miles replied. He glanced at the drawings again. "Now, James, do you think you might be able to draw a drawing of your old grandfather maybe without gray hair?"

James shrugged. "I guess. What color hair do you want?"

"Well, I've always been fond of purple."

"Okay," James said. He frowned down at his crayons for a moment.

"James," Cobb said gently. "Do you think you could draw in your room? I need to speak to Grandpa for a minute alone."

James nodded and left, carrying his crayons with him.

Cobb sighed, burying his face in his hands. He and Miles sat in complete silence, save for the deep ticking of the Grandfather Clock in the corner and the birds chirping in the backyard outside.

"Have they talked much about Arthur?" Miles asked.

"No," Cobb said softly. "The month after… Well, it was like with Mal. Lots of questions, comments… I could handle it fine. Up until today, I'd thought… Well, I'd hoped that they'd all but forgotten what had happened."

Miles sighed, almost in an irritated kind of way. "Of course not. They loved Arthur. And you very well know that he loved them."

"But he refused to save them," Cobb said, before he could stop himself. He internally groaned, seeing the way Miles' face darkened.

He'd never asked, but he'd always wondered if Miles had forgiven him for Arthur's death. They'd never talked about what had happened since Cobb had thrown the facts of the day at the energy plant to Miles without a moment's pause. He knew that Miles saw his side of the story, and understood why he had done what he had; but he also knew Miles supported Arthur's reasoning as well.

"Don't you dare," Miles hissed abruptly, forcing Cobb to look at him. "Don't you dare blame Arthur Zaleski for what happened. You know, and I know, that he was only protecting the woman he loved when he refused you. He loved your children; but he loved her, too."

Mal had told him the story of how Miles and Arthur met many times. She'd befriended Arthur, who was an exchange student at her university, Paris Descartes, where she was a graduate student in Psychology. She'd been seeing Cobb at the time, but then Cobb had gone abroad for some light dream work, before she could introduce him to Arthur. So on the day of his return, they'd arranged to meet at Miles' school, the same Cobb studied at.

Arthur had arrived first, and found Miles' office easily. Miles had been struggling to create a dream level for an outside extractor, and was staring at his plans when Arthur silently approached his desk. Arthur had taken one look at the plans and solved Miles' escape route problem. Miles had been floored, and that was when Arthur introduced himself.

Since then, Miles had always favored Arthur, proud of the young man's skill and intelligence. He'd often told Cobb that while he would always disapprove of their illegal work, he was relieved that he worked with Arthur, for no one was better.

_He got that right_, Cobb thought.

"I'm sorry, Miles," Cobb murmured. "I didn't mean it, of course not. I didn't mean to insinuate I blamed him. No one would blame Arthur for... what happened."

"Don't apologize to me," Miles said. "But I do wonder; have you ever apologized to _her_?"

Cobb knew exactly who the _her_ was that Miles was referring to.

He hadn't spoken to Ariadne since that dreadful telephone call, where his children tore open Ariadne's fresh grief with their naive attempts at understanding what she was going through. Cobb had done what he could, reminding Ariadne that he was really the only one who had a clue what it was like, losing the center of your universe. He'd repeatedly sent her emails, letters, left messages on her answering machine.

Nothing, until a single email from Ariadne. A new address in New York City, and a note:

_Here's my address. Only visit me if you need me. Otherwise, don't contact me again. I'm sorry it has to be like this. I wish you and your children all the best; I know they loved him._

And true to her request, Cobb hadn't done a thing.

"No," he said, answering Miles' question. "No, I haven't. She won't have anything to do with me."

"I can't blame the poor girl," Miles said stiffly. "She's had her heart broken, and I don't doubt she blames you for it."

Cobb's stomach tightened. "Miles, are you going somewhere with this?"

"I'm just saying-"

A soft beeping noise interrupted Miles. Both men looked around in confusion as the noise escalated. Cobb finally located a small silver panel on the wall; a red light was flickering. He leapt to his feet.

"Someone's at the gate," he whispered.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Miles' question was lost as Cobb moved quickly, pushing open the door to the office.

He found what he was looking for: the desktop computer was turned on, broadcasting video from a camera position on the gate at the end of the long driveway in front of the house. There was currently a taxi waiting at the gate. Cobb frowned and pressed for the intercom.

"Yes?"

"Yeah," the driver said in a thick Chicago drawl. "I've got, um… what's your name?" Indistinct mumbling from the back. "Yeah, I've got a Micah Harper here to see a Dominic Cobb."

Cobb stared at the screen, his mouth dropped open in shock.

_Micah_?

Cobb had been in limited contact with Micah since the job ended. He'd checked in soon enough, making sure that Micah had made it back to Boston and was settling back into his studies at Harvard, giving him his phone number and new address in Chicago for contact.

Their other correspondence had been short and concise. Bi-monthly emails, checking in with the other. Nothing to suggest or warrant a personal visit.

"Hello?" The driver sounded irritated.

"Er, yes, come in," Cobb said. He pressed the button and watched as the gates opened, the taxi driving through.

Cobb got up and returned to the living room. Miles was standing, his expression confused.

"Who is it?" He asked.

Cobb took a deep breath. "Micah Harper."

"Micah… _Micah Harper_?" Miles stared. "You mean that boy who was on the job with you? The one from Harvard? Why is he here?"

"No idea," Cobb murmured. "Want to find out with me?"

The two men walked to the front door and onto the porch as the taxi finally reached the house. The car idled for a moment as Cobb assumed Micah paid, before the doors opened.

Micah was not alone.

And Cobb's breath caught as he saw who was with him.

"Ariadne!" Miles called excitedly. "Could that really be Ariadne Chopin?" He stepped forward, walking down the front steps, moving much more quickly that normal. Ariadne laughed and accepted his hug with one of her own.

Micah shuffled around the side of the car and nodded at Cobb. "Hey, Cobb."

"Micah." Cobb's attention was focused on the petite brunette, wearing a buttoned jacket, jeans and black boots; a white lace scarf hung on her neck. She finally stepped out of Miles' warm embrace and turned to face Cobb.

"Hello, Cobb," she murmured.

"Ariadne," Cobb whispered. "It's good to see you."

Both Ariadne and Micah were carrying bags and backpacks, which they retrieved from the trunk of the taxi. The taxi vanished down the road as Miles walked with the two up the steps.

"You must be Mr. Harper," Miles said, shaking Micah's hand. "I'm Stephen Miles."

"Oh," Micah said in understanding. "Please call me Micah, sir."

"Then Stephen or Miles for me."

"Alright," Micah said. Cobb held the door as the three walked inside, and he followed, still trembling with shock.

Two small blonde-haired children were peering around the staircase, staring at the newcomers. Cobb glanced around and noticed how Ariadne had frozen at the sight of them, while Micah smiled warmly.

"Hey," he said, setting his bags down and kneeling on the ground. With his glasses, t-shirt, sweatshirt, baggy jeans and sneakers, Micah was far from intimidating. "My name is Micah. What are your names?"

"I'm Philippa Cobb," Philippa said formally, holding out her hand. Micah shook it, nonplussed.

James held out his own, more hesitantly, but determined to follow his sister's lead. "I'm James."

"Hello, James, Philippa," Micah said warmly. He stood as Ariadne walked forward slowly. She knelt down in front of the children, her chocolate brown eyes wide.

She swallowed once. "We've spoken before. You may not remember me… I'm Ariadne."

Both children gasped. Philippa began to dance on the spot.

"Ariadne!" She cried. "Oh my gosh! I've been wanting to meet you forever!" And then she leapt forward, catching Ariadne off-guard as she tackled her in a hug. James joined them, and Ariadne was momentarily buried under the two children.

Ariadne gently pulled away from the children, looking overwhelmed by their affection. "How have you been?"

"Good," James said.

"Do you like Chicago?"

"It's fine," Philippa said. "Ariadne, I drew a picture for you."

"Philippa, don't-" Cobb started, guessing what was coming, but he broke off, as Philippa produced the drawing of Arthur.

Ariadne took it and spent a long moment with her head bowed, just staring at it.

"It's Uncle Arthur," Philippa added helpfully. "Because daddy says he loved you and you said you loved him, and he died. When my _maman_ died, daddy hid all the pictures of her because he thought they would upset me and James. But I missed her. I like to look at her, and I thought, maybe you would want to look at him."

When Ariadne lifted her head, her eyes were filled with tears.

"Philippa," she whispered. "This is the greatest gift I've gotten in a long time."

Philippa beamed, and James quickly added, "I made a drawing for you too!" He took off up the stairs and Philippa followed him, going, "She liked mine first!"

Ariadne stood up, still staring at the drawing. She finally looked at them after a long moment of this.

"She's very good," she murmured to Cobb.

He nodded. "Yeah. You should see the ones she does of Mal."

"Do they miss him?"

Cobb swallowed nervously. "Very much."

Miles cleared his throat. "Why don't we take this to a more private location that the front hall?"

They settled in the office, with Miles heading off the children by telling them that Micah was jealous and wanted drawings as well. They scampered away, but not before James had given Ariadne his drawing of Arthur, which caused her to actually laugh.

"Well now," Miles said, studying Ariadne and Micah. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you, my dear protégé, but what brings you to Chicago?"

Ariadne hesitated, and exchanged a look with Micah.

Micah nodded. "Just show them, I think."

"Okay," Ariadne said. She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope, which she gave to Cobb. "This was sent to my apartment; I got it on Saturday. No return address."

Cobb opened the envelope, revealing two Polaroid pictures and a letter, which he and Miles studied. There was silence for several moments as the two men stared at the objects.

Cobb immediately believed he was dreaming. He pulled out the spinning top from his pocket and threw it on the desk. It fell over quickly.

_Reality_.

Miles took off his glasses, stowing them in his shirt pocket. "How can this be?"

"Your guess is as good as ours," Micah said.

"Cobb," Ariadne murmured. "Did you and Arthur ever run into Nikolai Volkov? Do you know who he is?"

Cobb shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"I wonder if he's from Cobol," Micah said hurriedly. "You know. Getting revenge on Arthur."

Cobb stilled. "It's definitely a possibility."

"So you haven't heard anything from Cobol?"

"I…" Cobb paused. "I did a job for them a year ago. And then gave them a substantial payment. With that, and Arthur gone… They're done with me."

Ariadne took a deep breath. "Cobb."

He looked at her. She looked fierce, strong, tough; a far cry from the last time Cobb had seen her.

_He was in shock, he couldn't be dead, not Arthur, the consummate survivor, the man Cobb believed to be infallible, who was always there, always ready… But Ariadne was curled in the seat, and asking why had Arthur died, and he found himself agreeing with her, his own tears furiously falling_-

He shook his head, clearing his mind of the images. "Ariadne."

"Cobb," Ariadne said. "You know why Micah and I are here. I didn't ask Micah to come with me; he agreed. He wants to do this for Arthur. And so I'm not going to ask you, either. You know what you have to do. You know that Arthur needs you now."

Cobb looked away, his fist clenching.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Micah burst out, surprising them all. They stared as he raged, eyes focused on Cobb. "You have to be joking. You're not seriously _considering _this, are you? Because there's nothing to consider! This is _Arthur_, Cobb! You _owe_ him! We all do!"

"Micah," Ariadne said, touching his arm. Micah backed down, his cheeks flushed. She turned to Cobb, her eyes smoldering.

"He's essentially right, Cobb."

"I know," Cobb said. "It's just…" He looked at the Polaroids again, forcing himself to meet the man's dark haunted eyes. Ariadne followed his gaze.

"Aha," she whispered. "You're tormented."

"Tormented?" Miles repeated. "Dom, what-"

"How often?" Ariadne demanded.

Cobb looked at her. "Every night. He's always there."

"Does he say anything?"

"No."

"He just hovers there," Micah murmured. "He walks in and out of your dreams, never acknowledging you, never speaking to you. You follow him, try to catch him, to beg forgiveness… But he disappears. Like he was never there…" Cobb gawked at Micah, nodding.

Micah nodded in return. "I know, because he's been haunting me, too."

"And me," Ariadne said.

"_Haunting? _All of you?" Miles sounded thunderstruck. "Dear God…"

"We all feel guilty," Micah explained. "For things we said, and didn't say… We left him behind. We all know it. And he's alive, and… We never tried to find him."

"Cobb," Ariadne said. "Arthur would find you, if this situation were reversed. Don't even pretend that isn't true."

Cobb sighed. "I won't, because you're right; Arthur wouldn't give up on me." He looked at Ariadne. "I suppose you haven't located Eames, yet?"

She and Micah exchanged another look.

"We assumed he's in London," Micah said slowly.

"Good thing you came here first," Cobb said. "He's in Barcelona. Miles, do you think you could watch the kids for me?"

Miles smiled. "I suppose I could do that. Give Arthur my best."

**I don't think Cobb was hesitating, exactly... I think he was too in shock, and ashamed that he hadn't tried to look for Arthur, as Micah so accurately stated. So don't hate on him just yet.**

**Review please**


	6. All These Things That I've Done

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**As always, thanks and love to the Reviewers- _Guest_: Cobb totally needs to redeem himself as well. I've got a few thoughts on how he'll accomplish that. _MrsCullen123_: yay! thanks _Paradoxical Fish_: I'm glad you saw that Micah is taking on the responsibilities of Arthur, that's important. He definitely loves Arthur and is invested in saving him. I love that he's your favorite! :D Here's some Eames for ya. _recey2010_: I'm not sure what "smh" means but here's Eames! _LeslieSophia_: hey there! thanks _Majestic Moments_: Hi! Thanks for the comments. Here's Eames' reaction for you to dissect. _In. Blue. 85_: hello again! I love the speculation; and I'm writing this story as I go, so if a comment strikes me as interesting, maybe it'll come to pass. and thanks, happy New Year to you as well! _Knuckiducki_: I didn't mean to imply that Cobb was going to make some bad choices later, so that was a poor choice of words; I just didn't want anyone to automatically dislike him because you're right, there are already plenty of bad feelings around him. If I stick with my outline, this story will be 26 chapters. D: and thank you for the get well wishes! _gina1276_: "torture"?! yikes! I'm glad she makes more sense now.**

**Chapter title from the song by the Killers. I imagine Eames might like them.**

**A (maybe, considering it's Eames) unnecessary warning: Language.**

All These Things That I've Done

Tuesday, May 14, 2013: Barcelona, Spain: _El Ojo del Toro_: Eames

Eames was pretty sure he was dreaming, because Arthur Zaleski was sitting in the seat across from him, and he knew that Arthur Zaleski was dead.

His belief that he was dreaming was only exacerbated by the fact that the seaside bar was completely empty, not a single patron in sight. This may have been because it was midday, and the sun was shining brightly in the sky, but Eames wasn't sure; it still didn't feel right.

His head snapped from the empty bar to the table when Arthur laughed.

The point man leaned forward, spinning Eames' now empty bottle of whiskey around and around. He was dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks, complete with black tie. His hair was slicked back as usual, but he looked more relaxed than Eames remembered him to be.

"Whiskey," Arthur commented, still twirling the bottle around. Eames watched its progress, mesmerized. "And empty. What have you been up to, Mr. Eames?"

Eames frowned. "I could ask you the same, darling. How's the afterlife?"

"Invigorating," Arthur said, still speaking in that soft tone Eames knew so well.

"Met anyone?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I assume you're speaking of my deceased relatives?"

"Who else?" But Eames' suggestive wink suggested otherwise, and Arthur smirked.

"There are a lot of women here," Arthur told him. "Just like there were a lot of women _there_." He stared hard at Eames abruptly. "But we both know I couldn't care less for them. We both know who I'm waiting for." He paused. "I'm surprised you haven't made your move yet."

Eames sighed. "You told me to leave when she asked, and I did."

"And I appreciate it," Arthur murmured. "I'm just surprised you actually listened to me. There's a first."

"Do you watch her?" Eames asked. "Because, darling, that's very creepy of you. I saw this movie once, with what's-his-name… Patrick Swayze. Say, have you met him? Seemed like a good bloke."

"I haven't."

"Eh, that's a shame. Anyway, this movie; he was dead but he kept coming back and hanging around his poor wife. Nearly drove the bird crazy." Eames frowned at Arthur. "You aren't driving Ariadne mad, are you?"

"I don't think she knows I'm there," Arthur murmured.

"So you _do_ hang around her."

"Of course," Arthur said. "I miss her. This place… It's not what it could really be. Not without her here." He leaned forward. "Do you know what it's like, Mr. Eames? To be this close-" He stretched his arm out, laying his hand on the table in front of Eames. To Eames, his skin looked unnaturally pale and unblemished. Unreal, no blood flow… "-To be this close to the love of your life, and unable to touch her? Unable to comfort her, to listen to her cry and know you can't _help her anymore_? It's unbearable."

He sat back. His dark brown eyes were smoldering.

"Mr. Eames," he said, his voice chilled and cold and reminiscent of lethal-Arthur, when he killed people. "You don't have to worry about Ariadne losing her mind. Because I will lose mine first."

He vanished.

The whiskey bottle fell to the floor with a crash.

Eames shot up straight, almost falling off his stool. He was sitting at the bar, facing the long line of shelves containing every imaginable kind of liquor. It was indeed sunny out, and the place was mostly empty, though there were a few people milling about. More were on the beach outside, where the bar ran into it, and some were even swimming in the dark blue ocean.

He turned around and spotted the table he'd dreamt he'd been sitting at with Arthur. It was empty. Eames looked down at the floor and realized he'd knocked over the empty bottle of whiskey.

"Hmph," Eames grumbled. He pressed his face against the hard wood of the bar, gritting his teeth against the pounding headache he was currently experiencing. The room seemed to be trembling…

Eames fumbled for his pocket, eventually managing to procure the small gold engagement ring he kept with him at all times. He rested his chin on the bar, taking in the sight of the shimmering sapphire.

"So this is reality," he muttered, testing the weight. "Well, I suppose that's better than drinking with a ghost."

He reflexively glanced back at the table. But there was no sign of Arthur.

"_Hey!_" The cry in Spanish came from the bartender, who'd spotted the shattered glass on the floor. "_Are you going to clean this up_?"

"You clean it," Eames snapped in English. He reached into his jacket and shoved a crumpled Euro note at the bartender before struggling to his feet. He grabbed his sunglasses from the bar and ambled towards the beach.

It was a beautiful morning in Barcelona. Eames walked down the beach, sand seeping into his shoes, squinting even with his sunglasses. He kept his head down, ignoring the sights around him; of the enthusiastic tourists, the squealing children. Even tanning women in bikinis couldn't catch his attention.

Once upon a time, Eames would've been all over this scene. Barcelona had always been one of his favorite cities in the world, Spain one of his favorite countries. After he and Isabel divorced, he'd enjoyed more than his share of brief encounters in Barcelona, trying to move on and forget about his ex-wife. He always came to Spain when he wanted time to himself, to relax and rejuvenate before a new job.

But now…

Well. It'd be a lot easier to have a good time if he wasn't constantly on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

Eames reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He carefully lit one, sticking it into his mouth as the sand gave way to cobblestone streets.

He wandered down the streets of Barcelona, still battling a headache and stumbling a little from his hangover. He felt crumpled and sweaty all over; he knew he didn't look good.

His meandering stroll was halted when he was clipped by a running little boy.

"Oi!" Eames yelled angrily. "Watch where you're going!"

The boy glanced around, terrified, and Eames realized he wasn't a local. Judging by his Captain America t-shirt, he knew where he was from.

"Bloody _American!_" He screeched as the boy reached his troubled and startled parents, who gawked at Eames and his outburst. "The lot of you! I've never had anything but trouble from _Americans! _The best American I ever met had to go and fucking _die on me_, the _bastard_!"

He turned around and realized he was standing in the middle of the street, an open market on one side, a fancy café on the other. Every person in the vicinity was staring at him.

"What are you looking at?" Eames demanded furiously.

It was his exhaustion, he knew, that was causing him to behave like this. But that didn't prevent him from doing any of it.

"Leave me alone," he snapped, continuing his angry and aimless walk, muttering to himself now. "Fucking tired of this mess, get out of my mind now, you bugger, stop this-"

"Well, you certainly look worse for wear."

Eames spun around and promptly toppled over into the gutter when he spotted the speaker.

It was none other than Dominic Cobb, wearing a neat gray suit and black sunglasses, which he lowered now; a plate of salad and a beer was on the table in front of him. Sitting on the other side of the table was someone Eames had never expected to see again: Micah Harper, unusually dignified in dark jeans, a button-down blue shirt and tie.

"Bloody hell," Eames murmured. "What do you want?"

Cobb got up smoothly. Micah scrambled to follow him, adjusting his glasses and smiling at Eames.

"Hey, Eames," he said. He held out a hand and Eames took it, allowing the young man to pull him to his feet. He stared up at Micah, trying and mostly failing to come up with something witty to say.

"What are you doing here, Micah?" He asked tensely. "Finally decided to take me up on one of my offers, hm? Well, I've got bad news for you, kid; I haven't done a bloody job in _ages_."

"Yeah, why's that?" The question came from Cobb, who wandered over loftily, hands in his pockets. Most of the neighboring patrons had returned to their meals, ignoring the exchange.

Eames glared. "Oho. No, you don't. You don't get to patronize me, you fucker. Not when you went mad after Mal died-"

"You're not the only one who loved Arthur, Eames," Cobb snapped.

"What the hell are you doing here, Cobb?" Eames demanded bluntly. "If you think you can waltz up and blackmail me into another bloody job, you've got another thing coming. This'll be news to you, all cocooned in your playground in Chicago, but I'm done with your shit. I should've been done years ago, but you always got the best jobs. Inception? Fucking miracle. Bloody fantastic. The challenge, the payout... I considered you a friend. And then you go around and _threaten_ me and the next thing I know, I'm watching _Arthur Fucking Zaleski_ fall down an elevator shaft and _die_. He's _dead_. _I watched him die, and it's all I can watch anymore_! So say what you came here to say, Dominic Cobb, and then get out of my sights. I never want to see your bloody clock around here again, or so help me, you'll be going back to America in a _box_."

Cobb waited for Eames to finish his speech and then pointedly sighed. "You've been holding that back for a while."

"You bet your arse I have. Pleased to say it to your face, but that's all I'm happy about at the moment." Eames turned to Micah. "Even you, precious, could not lighten my mood. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"Edward."

A single word, his name, and Eames spun around. Sure enough, there she was, standing just a little behind them on the sidewalk. Her arms were crossed in front of her, and she was wearing a lace dress, one he dimly remembered her wearing on the Browning job. To him, she looked mostly the same. The exact same from the last time he saw her, that was, when she hugged him on the sidewalk of a Paris street, telling him she would be fine...

He swallowed. "Ariadne."

She joined the group, and he wanted to wail at how sad she looked. "Edward... What _happened_ to you?"

Eames sighed, sagging as if the weight of the world had just fallen onto his shoulders. "Our mutual love, Ariadne. Our mutual love."

Cobb gestured for more chairs and the group sat. Eames felt exhausted, like his stress and tiredness had all caught up with him at the sight of Ariadne. When the waiter asked him what he wanted to drink, he requested water.

"Water?" Cobb sounded surprised. "Uncommon choice for you."

"Should I be ordering something stronger?" Eames asked.

Cobb shrugged, and Eames turned back to the waiter. "Heineken, _por favor_."

As soon as the waiter had brought their drinks and left the vicinity, Eames took a long drink of his beer before slamming it against the table.

"Alright, out with it," he said sternly. "What are you doing here? And you'd better not say a reunion."

Micah snorted while Cobb reached into his jacket. He held out an envelope to Eames, who looked at it suspiciously.

Cobb sighed. "It's easier for you to see this first before we answer any of your questions."

"What is it?" Eames wondered, opening the envelope. "What are these, Polaroids? Thought they were extinct." He studied the long-distance shot of a man. "This bugger doesn't look so good. Skinny as the raindrops." He turned to the other, and that was when he lost his voice.

"And there it is," he heard Micah mutter, as if from a great distance.

"These are fake," Eames announced a few seconds later, dropping the Polaroids on the table like they were explosives.

Ariadne sat up straight, alarmed. "What? How do you know?"

"Because, Ariadne," Eames said gruffly. "We watched Arthur get shot, twice. Once in the abdomen-" he pressed his hand against his stomach to illustrate his point "-and once right here, either in the heart or next to it-" he did the same, thumping his chest "-and then he was pushed down an elevator shaft. I've thought about it many times, and I haven't come up with a plausible scenario where Arthur survived."

"Well, think again," Cobb said. "He's alive. Read the note."

Eames spotted the sheet of paper that accompanied the photos and reluctantly picked it up, holding it gingerly like a grenade. Everyone watched him as he read the letter, his eyes moving slowly as he took the words in. His mind seemed to be moving very sluggishly, unable to really process what he was reading.

Eventually, he lowered the paper.

"What the hell is this?"

"We were hoping you might have an idea," Micah said. "None of us know who Nikolai Volkov is."

Eames shook his head. "And neither do I. A Russian name if I ever heard one though..." He trailed off, for there was one other Russian name they'd all heard of. He cleared his throat and looked down at the letter.

"So I expect you've come to corral me into this?"

"Do you need corralling?" Micah wondered. "If you're anything like the rest of us, you're ready to book your plane ticket to Moscow."

His food arrived and Eames promptly shoved _carne asada_ into his mouth to avoid speaking. He couldn't take his eyes off the photographs of Arthur, whose brown eyes stared somberly back, as if goading him into doing this. But they didn't say _save me_. If anything, his eyes were telling him to stay away.

"I wonder..." He murmured.

"What?" Cobb demanded.

Eames sighed, running a hand over his hair. "I wonder if Arthur would really want us to go after him."

"What makes you say that?" Micah asked, alarmed.

"He just... Here, look." Eames indicated the polaroid of the close-up of Arthur's face, and everyone leaned in. "Look at his eyes. What does he look like to you?"

Ariadne's lips twisted in understanding, while Micah just looked baffled. It was Cobb who answered.

"A shade," Cobb murmured. "That lifeless expression..."

"What do you mean?" Micah asked, interested.

"Shades are figments of the mind," Cobb explained. "Not human, not real. They don't have life, or minds, or _souls_. Aside from their actions, it's always that little sign of emptiness that tips us off." He looked up at Eames. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"

Eames sighed. "We can all agree we're looking at Arthur's body. But that does not necessarily mean that _Arthur_ is still here." He thought of his dream, Arthur's stony expression, his comments of the here and there-

"But we have to get him."

Ariadne had finally spoken up. The men looked at her. Eames saw that her hands were balled into tiny fists, resting on her lap. She looked determined, her jaw set in a way that reminded Eames eerily of Arthur.

"Even if..." She swallowed. "Even if he's not quite _himself_ right now... We can't leave him there. Don't you see? Volkov will kill him if we don't get him out. We can't... We have to get him."

Her expression was so fierce that no one dared contradict her. Eames reached into his pocket and pulled out a new cigarette. He kept his eyes on her, even as Cobb began to speak about plane tickets.

After lunch, Eames returned to the house on the waterfront that he'd been renting, in order to catch up on some much-needed, uninterrupted sleep, while the others went back to their hotel. Eames didn't hesitate in adding a sedative to his drink; after the revelation about Arthur, he couldn't even imagine what his dreams would be like, and he sure didn't want to find out.

Eames eventually woke, rested, with no thoughts of Arthur. And perhaps it would've stayed that way, if his house had been empty.

But as he walked towards the kitchen, he passed by the open doors that led to the deck and saw the still form of Ariadne, looking at the ocean. He hesitated for a moment before joining her.

The sun was setting, covering the beach in a light orange color. The ocean was a dark blur of movement, but Ariadne was staring at it like she would never see it again. Eames stood beside her, gripping the railing of the deck, and waited for her to speak.

"Micah is a graduate student," Ariadne said suddenly. "Who will be living in Manhattan over the summer. He doesn't have a lot of money to freely spend, which is why he wanted to crash here rather than stay in the hotel."

Eames realized she was actually looking at Micah, who was wandering around the water's edge, stepping in and out of the tide like it was a game. He was still wearing his clothes from earlier, and his tie was blowing around in the breeze like a sail.

"And he was nervous about staying here with just you, so I volunteered," Ariadne continued.

"What's he doing down there?" Eames asked.

She smirked. "Micah has only ever been to Canada, Mexico and the Bahamas. Europe, and Spain, is brand new for him and he's enjoying it as much as he can."

"I see." Eames looked back at Ariadne and saw she was looking up at him, her expression desolate and somber. He lowered his head, unable to bear it.

"How are you, Edward?"

"Surprised."

She sighed pointedly. "That's not what I meant. How have you been? We haven't spoken-"

"-Since the job," Eames finished. "Since you threw me out of your apartment in Paris." He tried not to sound bitter, but he was certain he failed because Ariadne's face flushed. She looked down, avoiding his gaze.

"It was time for you to leave," Ariadne murmured.

"Do you ever think about me?"

The words were out before he could stop them, before he knew he would say them. They hung in the air between him and Ariadne, along with all the other unspoken thoughts and truths he'd never managed to say to her. He looked down, ashamed.

"Not as often as you'd like," Ariadne said softly. She seemed to be playing with a long necklace that hung around her neck and disappeared under her dress. She noticed where he was looking and tugged the necklace up. Something silver flashed in the light from the sunset, and Eames reached forward.

A diamond ring hung from the end of the necklace. He ran his hands over it, studying the design, the glittering diamonds.

"New totem?" He wondered.

"I found it," Ariadne whispered. "Hidden in the PASIV. He... He would've given it to me."

"It's lovely," Eames commented. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sapphire engagement ring he carried with him at all times, his own totem, his reminder of a past love. "Look at us. Carrying around engagement rings like ordinary people carry pocket change."

"Pathetic."

She turned as Micah called, waving energetically and running towards them from the ocean. Eames finally looked away from her, tucking the ring back into his pocket.

"Yes," he murmured. "Pathetic."

**Review, please**


	7. The Man Who Sold The World

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Yay Reviewers!- _Paradoxical fish_: I'm glad Eames' theory makes sense to you; bodes well for my character development skills. And the scene at the end might be my favorite so far. _cinema therapy_: I know, right? haha. my version of Eames is extremely sentimental. _theonlyredhead_: gosh, thank you very much! _In. Blue. 85_: You'll find out the real deal about Volkov very soon! and your opinion on Ariadne is correct. _MajesticMoments_: I feel like Eames is right on par with Cobb in terms of guilt, since they both treated him terribly; only thing is, Eames had a very low opinion of Arthur prior to the last ten-ish chapters of the previous story-and then Arthur saved his life. Bad news all around. _Nina.4444_: ahhh thank you!**

**Chapter title from the song by David Bowie, though I kinda like the Nirvana version more.**

The Man Who Sold The World

Thursday, May 16, 2013: Moscow, Russia: Kvartina 44: Micah

"This language is madness," Eames muttered in annoyance, scanning the menu before him.

It was just afternoon, and he, Ariadne, Cobb and Micah were having lunch in a restaurant in the heart of Moscow, Russia. Micah could barely keep still; the place was alive, buzzing with conversation in a whirl of language he couldn't possibly understand. Micah knew a handful of Spanish (taken in high school) and had found the language challenging and exciting; but it paled in comparison to the fluidity and complexity of Russian.

Eames set the menu down, looking disgruntled. "Micah, you're supposed to be brilliant and similar to Arthur; do you happen to know Russian?"

Micah flushed and looked down at his lap, avoiding Eames' amused chuckles. "Uh, no. Sorry, Eames."

"How about you, Cobb?" Eames asked.

"No," Cobb said. "I've only been to Russia once before. I worked with Arthur too long, and he always avoided Russia like the place was an incubus. So I can't say I know any Russian, Eames."

The waiter approached, and looked at them pointedly. Micah glanced at Eames, wondering how they were going to do this, when-

"мы будем иметь..." Micah could only gawk as Ariadne launched into total Russian, her eyes on the menu as the waiter occasionally nodded or asked her a question regarding something she'd asked for. There would be a short pause, where Ariadne frowned in thought, before she answered in a short sentence. She was so calm and collected about it, like she spoke Russian everyday.

As soon as the waiter was out of sight, Micah launched into it.

"You speak _Russian_?"

"Not really," Ariadne said. At Micah's disbelieving look, she blushed and clarified, "Well, a little bit. Arthur's fluent, so I asked him to teach me some phrases one day, and um... It kind of snowballed from there. I love learning new languages..."

"Well, you're in charge of conversation now," Cobb commented.

Ariadne didn't respond to this. Instead, she reached down and pulled up her messenger bag, opening it.

"I thought we could begin to prepare ourselves for what we'll find," she said.

Eames frowned. "Ari, love, we tried that already."

It was true; yesterday had been spent doing research on everyone and everything that was even vaguely connected to Cobol Engineering. While Micah scoured websites, Eames and Cobb called up contacts, and Ariadne (surprising them again) had thrown herself into digging up what the U.S. military knew about Cobol.

"I'm still somewhat in contact with Arthur's best friend in the military," Ariadne had explained to Micah, standing by the printer in Eames' rented home in Barcelona as it spat out maps. "Adam is too, so it isn't particularly strange or anything. Jonah likes me a bit, I think; he gave me in the inside scoop on Achtung, so I could see what kind of future it had before I took the job."

"What does he think you want to know Cobol about for?" Micah had asked, eyebrows raised.

Ariadne had sighed. "Adam has already told Jonah about Cobol and Arthur… I told Jonah that I just needed to see the facts, to make sure they didn't have him. Which is true, except Jonah thinks I only mean Arthur's dead body."

Their search had been far from fruitful. They knew that Cobol had just landed a huge contract with a major Korean company, that one of their vice presidents of marketing was retiring soon and that a new branch was being opened in Kabul; but nothing even mentioning Arthur.

They'd also searched high and low for Nikolai Volkov, coming across a handful. But they had a hard time believing the Nikolai Volkov they were looking for worked as a janitor, or science teacher, or baker.

In the present, the restaurant in Moscow, Ariadne blushed at Eames' comment. "I realize that. I'm not talking just about Cobol."

And from her bag she revealed a stack of official documents, and a handful of snapshots of Arthur.

Micah remembered the grisly photographs a distraught Browning had flaunted after discovering Arthur's past and how legitimate his threat to kill him was. They'd been difficult to stomach: Arthur's broken body, twisted and contorted in unnatural ways, bones jutted and dangling, bruises dark and immovable. If he hadn't seen Arthur standing next to him, Micah would never believed that the man in the photographs had survived an hour after the photos were taken. He'd never wanted to see a human being in that much suffering again.

Now, he was looking at even more of those awful pictures.

Arthur's face a bloody mask, devoid of rationality and personality. The scars and lacerations of multiple surgeries, contusions, markings that would never fade or heal. Micah watched, numb, as Ariadne passed the photos around, her eyes glancing around at the patrons near them (but the place was crowded and loud, and Micah was sure they'd be ignored; they no longer stuck out like tourists, thanks to Ariadne's fluent Russian).

Among the terrible photos of a beaten Arthur were images of Arthur before and after. Micah gaped at a photocopy of Arthur's Harvard identification card, so amazingly similar to the one in his wallet at that very moment. Then there were photos of Arthur on the street, in Afghanistan before, in physical therapy after (in a wheelchair, Micah thought, amazed). He drank in all of them, recognizing Arthur's blank expression that concealed every emotion.

"Okay," Cobb said slowly, scanning a document. "Ariadne, why-"

"I've been seeing a dream psychiatrist," Ariadne said quickly. "And if I've learned anything from him, it's that how we respond to trauma can depend on what happened before it. We can even draw connections from the trauma to past events, and those can impact in the future. I thought taking a look at Arthur's past might help us when we… When we see him again."

Micah found himself nodding, agreeing with her logic.

Eames sighed, running a hand through his hair. "This will be fun."

They jumped into it, shuffling aside documents and photographs in silence as they began to study. Micah found his eyes drawn to a letter, where the name Monty Eliot jumped out at him.

…_an excellent candidate for the program. His name is Arthur Zaleski, the son of the late Eli Zaleski (born Ilia Zaleski, immigrated from St. Petersburg, KIA 1988, Moscow). Arthur has proven to have an inclination towards psychology, with a special focus on night terrors brought on by the assassination of Eli. Since Eli's death, I have been mentoring Arthur, whose skills are unparalleled, in my opinion. Though he is only fifteen, he is uncommonly intelligent and it is my belief he would be the perfect fit for this program._

A past conversation with Arthur came to Micah then:

_"After my father died, I experienced night terrors," Arthur said softly. "I've always been a researcher at heart, so I threw myself into trying to diagnose and cure them on my own. I succeeded, with the help of one of my dad's military buddies. His name was Monty Eliot, and he kind of took over the role of father after mine died. He gave me some books on psychology and he also taught me how to use a gun and how to fight, all before I was a teenager. Eliot was well-connected." He looked at Micah. "When the military decided to open a program of shared dreaming at Harvard, he recommended me. I went through a series of interviews and aptitude tests, which I passed easily. All because of Eliot."_

It was that recommendation letter, Micah realized, amazed. The recommendation letter that got Arthur into the military's pilot program on shared dreaming, a program that ultimately sent Arthur to near-death in Afghanistan and a future in criminal work…

Micah shook his head to clear it and shifted the paperwork, coming across a short newspaper obituary in the Los Angeles Times for Eli Zaleski.

_Ilia "Eli" Ivanovich Zaleski (born February 3, 1950 in St. Petersburg, Russia) passed away while working abroad in Moscow, Russia, on May 13, 1988. Eli immigrated to the United States in 1977, settling in Los Angeles where he initially worked as a biologist before being recruited by the U.S. Military as an special envoy to Russia; Eli was well-respected in the military for his insight and dedication to the United States. Eli is survived by his wife of almost 10 years, Evangeline Beckett, and their two sons, Adam and Arthur._

"Hey Ariadne," Micah called. "Did you know Arthur's dad was a biologist?"

She glanced up. "Um, yeah, that sounds a little familiar. Where'd you read that?"

"Here." Micah handed her the biography. He noticed a small black and white picture that accompanied it: a dark-haired man in a military uniform, solemn, his hair cut short.

_They have the same eyes_, Micah thought.

"Ilia," Ariadne said in wonder. "Arthur never mentioned he changed his name when he immigrated to America."

"Maybe he didn't know?" Micah suggested.

She scoffed. "I'm sure he knew. I expect he just didn't think it necessary to tell me."

They stayed at the restaurant for a while longer, reading tidbits about Arthur's life and eating their late lunch. Even with all the new information at his hands, Micah still felt like he was nowhere near knowing who Arthur was. He'd thought about him almost constantly for a year and a half, but had never thought to expand on what he knew, to wonder how Arthur came to be the man he was. He felt like he'd committed a great disservice in that respect.

Eventually, Eames spoke what they were all thinking: "We should get to the airport."

They exited the restaurant. It was humid out, and the sky was gray, smog and cloud blocking the sun. Micah followed the team into a cab, and looked listlessly out the window as they passed through the streets of Moscow, as the driver attempted to make conversation with Ariadne, who responded in bored Russian.

Micah's nervousness was at an all-time high. He had no idea what to expect, what to prepare for.

But as they drove through the city, he was struck by the beauty and antiquity of it all. The massive stone monuments, futuristic buildings, glittering water fountains. Before this trip, the only places outside of the U.S. Micah had traveled to were Canada, Mexico and the Bahamas. He could now cross Spain and Russia from his list.

_I kinda wish we could stay here longer_, he thought as they drove past a massive cathedral.

He hadn't realized he'd voiced this opinion until Eames, sitting beside him, spoke: "Eh. Russia is overrated."

Sheremetyevo International Airport was just North of the center of Moscow, and one of the busiest airports in the city. As Volkov had not specified where they were to meet, the group stood uncomfortably in front of one terminal, uncertain.

"How about this," Cobb said suddenly. "We'll split up. Ariadne with me, Micah with Eames. Call if you meet Volkov."

"Alright," Micah said, as the other two nodded their agreement. He and Eames set off one way, Cobb and Ariadne the other.

Micah walked with purpose, wary of the numerous security guards around them who were just begging for an excuse to tackle a would-be terrorist. Even though Micah believed he looked just as threatening as he felt-which meant his threat level was virtually non-existant-he wasn't looking forward to being interrogated in a language he had no grasp of.

Nearby, Eames was ambling along, his blue eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses; his certainty and confidence deterred any suspicions and made Micah feel jealous. He'd no sooner experienced this thought when Eames pressed forward to walk alongside him.

"How are you, precious?"

"Precious?" Micah repeated dubiously. "You're kidding."

Eames raised his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"You're not actually going to call me Precious." He paused. "Right?"

Eames smirked. "I don't know, I kind of like it. Besides, you're the mini-Arthur... You should have a nickname too, no?"

"What do you call Arthur?"

"Darling." Even behind the sunglasses, Micah could tell Eames' sentimental feelings had kicked into gear. "Of course, my little joke was that Darling was Arthur's real surname... Before I found out what it was exactly, truth be told. Not that the truth will prevent me from using it."

Micah frowned. "Arthur lets you get away with that?"

"For all his humph-ing and complaining, Arthur is rather patient," Eames explained. "He's an incredible teacher. Once upon a time, Cobb and I discussed Arthur's future and we both assumed his retirement from mind heists and crime would immediately segue into a teaching career at some fancy Ivy League school."

Micah considered this. "I suppose."

"I'm sensing some doubt," Eames commented. "Where, pray tell, do you imagine Arthur Zaleski will end up, precious?"

"I don't know about his career but I know wherever he'll be, Ariadne will be with him."

The words were out before Micah could stop them, and he immediately turned a neon red. He was uncomfortably aware of how near Eames was, even as they continued their stroll through the airport, foreign voices calling around them. If there was one thing Micah had known to not discuss with Eames, it was Ariadne. It figured he would hit on that taboo topic within a minute of his first private conversation with the man.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"You mean to say 'whoops', precious."

If possible, Micah flushed more. Eames chuckled, though it sounded rather forced.

"I apologize," Eames said, surprising Micah. "That was callous of me. You only spoke your personal opinion, after all."

"Yeah, but I didn't..." Micah paused, before deciding _if I'm toast, might as well burn myself too_. "I didn't mean to upset you, or anything..."

Eames burst out laughing. "My, you are precious. You are a very kind soul, Micah Harper."

Micah blinked, remembering another conversation where someone had called him kind:

"_Micah Harper," Arthur said, standing in the hotel elevator, his voice filled with wonder. "You are, without a doubt, one of the most selfless and forgiving people I've ever had the great fortune to meet. And I can't give you higher praise than that."_

"Thanks," Micah muttered. They had just passed the Korean Air desks when a small group of men approached them, coming from seemingly thin air. Micah and Eames stopped in their tracks, and the group looked at each other.

"Edward Eames?" One of the men, one with black hair, spoke up.

Eames cleared his throat. "Indeed. And who, may I ask, are you?"

"We work for Volkov," the man said. "Where are Ariadne Chopin and Dominic Cobb?"

"In the vicinity," Eames said. Micah pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hurriedly called Ariadne. She answered within a ring.

"Micah, what is it?"

"I think we've found them," Micah said slowly, aware that the whole group was staring at him.

Ariadne's breath caught. "Okay. Where?"

"Um. Korean Air?"

He heard a muffled voice in the background; Cobb. "Okay, we'll be there in a minute." Ariadne hung up. Micah glanced at his phone before pocketing it.

"Who are you?" The same black-haired man asked Micah. Micah realized he shared the common Russian accent he'd become accustomed to while in Moscow.

"My name is Micah Harper," Micah said.

The man glanced at Eames, who nodded and added, "He's with us. Nothing to worry about, he's just a boy."

Micah bristled, but thought better of saying anything. Not that he would've had a chance to; for Ariadne and Cobb appeared, both panting from an apparent run to meet them.

"Ariadne Chopin?" The dark-haired man asked. "And Dominic Cobb?"

"Are you Nikolai Volkov?" Ariadne demanded without preamble.

"No," the man said. "But I'm here to take you to him. Please, follow us." Ariadne stepped forward immediately, with Cobb and Eames shadowing her. Micah followed behind, aware that the group of men had shifted in such a way that they appeared to be only walking in the same direction; but Micah knew they were really being herded.

Ariadne kept pace with the dark-haired man. "Where is Arthur?"

"I cannot tell you," the man replied.

"What _can_ you tell me?"

"I can tell you that you will see Volkov in a matter of hours," the man said. "And from there, maybe Zaleski."

Cobb and Eames exchanged a glance, and Ariadne's face remained a perfect poker face. But Micah's heart soared and he couldn't help the trembling smile that broke through.

_He's alive_. _He's really alive_.

They exited the terminal, emerging outside where a large van was waiting. Micah immediately balked, but Ariadne climbed into the van fearlessly. Both Cobb and Eames showed some hesitation, but it was clear: they weren't going to let Ariadne go alone.

So Micah scrambled in after his team, his heart hammering in terror. _Deep breaths._

_"__Breathe with me_," _Arthur murmured, looking down at Ariadne, whose torso was bright red with spilled blood. She was terrified, and Micah felt close to passing out at the sight. But Arthur was calm and collected, breathing evenly, his hands curled around Ariadne's arms, both comforting and restraining. And somehow... She breathed with him_.

_I can do this_, Micah thought. _I have to_.

He thought of the last time he'd seen Arthur as they exited the airport, walking through a parking lot.

_He scrambled out of the closet, yanking Ariadne up with him. She turned, reaching for Arthur, and the next thing Micah knew, they were kissing, Arthur's blood staining her shirt and hand. Arthur stepped back, murmured something to a dazed Ariadne, and looked at Micah. In that one look, Micah saw a thousand different commands: get yourself out. Go back to Harvard. Get that degree. Take Ariadne away from here. Protect the team; you're the point man now._

_Forgive me_.

Micah suddenly gasped. He looked down and saw a needle sticking out of his arm.

"What the hell!?" He shrieked, and reached to seize the needle, but a firm hand stopped him. He looked up and saw, to his amazement, the hand belonged to Eames.

He shook his head minutely, and Micah relaxed, his ability to inherently trust overcoming him. That was all it took for him to pass out.

It could've been hours, days, later, when Micah was snapped awake by a sudden movement that threw his body around like a rag doll. He gasped, coming to, and saw only darkness.

_A van..._ When did he get into a van? Micah trembled. He felt groggy, sticky, tired. He realized his hands were free, though their movements were slow, weighed down with his confusion. He could hear wind outside, the chaotic tumble of the tires over rough concrete. A road?

They hit yet another bump, and Micah struggled to right himself. He seized the door, clutching onto the frame with all he could and doing his best to not tip over and land somewhere awkward. Like Eames' lap, for example. _Is Eames still next to me?_

He believed the forger was sitting beside him, but not much beyond that, thanks to the blindfold around his eyes.

In the back, Micah could hear Ariadne's ragged breathing. Though she was probably being tossed around just as much as he, Micah knew Ariadne would mostly be anxious over the situation. He was terrified more than anything else, and trying his best to not show any of it. He had to be strong now, for even if Ariadne was anxious but composed, he understood that facade could shatter at any moment.

Eames cleared his throat suddenly. "How much longer?"

Micah whipped his head around, trying to locate him, stunned that he had the audacity to actually ask what they'd all been thinking. His eyes flickered to the front of the van, where he assumed a driver was.

"Not much," a man's voice replied in a thick accent.

He heard Ariadne's sharp intake of breath, and his stomach rolled in anticipation. They would see Arthur soon. He was sure of it.

He heard sudden rustling behind him, and he turned his head again, wishing he could see through the material that covered his eyes.

"Where do you think we are?" Cobb whispered, having ascertained the others were also in the car.

Micah considered this. They'd followed the instructions, arriving in Moscow with time to spare. Ariadne had been anxious, convinced she would see Arthur's captors and anticipating attacking them and winning. But there'd been too many, a mysterious group of men in sweaters and boots with steely expressions. From there... Well, he had no idea. He pressed his palm to the window and yanked it back quickly, surprised at the frigid temperature.

"No idea," Eames replied. "I don't even know which country we're in."

Micah frowned, but couldn't disagree. He wouldn't put it past these men to have successfully smuggled them out of Russia, considering they'd somehow managed to transport a seriously injured Arthur from Los Angeles…

_Deep breaths_.

The car lurched to a stop suddenly, and Micah barely managed to keep his balance. A thunk and an agitated huff told him Ariadne had not been so lucky.

"He wasn't kidding," Eames muttered.

He heard a door sliding and a sudden rush of bitterly cold wind blew directly at Micah. He gasped, shocked at the temperature now that he was outside. They were far North, that much was certain.

"Come on," a man snapped.

Micah waited until he heard Eames climb out, and then he followed. A hand grabbed his arm, helping him jump out of the van. His sneakers hit gravel, small rocks that cascaded around his feet. The hand around his arm pulled him along, guiding him forward, as identical footsteps surrounded him, crunching through the… path?

He heard a heavy door opening and his first thought was of the Los Angeles warehouse. Was he being led into a similar warehouse?

The terrain changed from gravel to hard cement, the slight heels of Ariadne's boots clicking along with the boots of the men. The light changed significantly, darkening. Micah kept his breathing even, even as his trepidation continued to mount.

They walked for a few minutes, eventually going down a narrow flight of stairs that Micah nervously navigated, hating how he couldn't see his steps. He was growing colder and colder, and the air was growing mustier and mustier.

_Where am I_?

Eventually, he was stopped. Micah stood utterly still, only breathing.

Then the blindfold was ripped from his eyes.

**Cliffhanger! Muahahaha. Actually, truth is, this part was written a long time ago (like before I finished posting "To Lose My Life" and my outline ended up forcing me to cut it up. It's hella long.)**

**HELP: I need advice! I wrote a multi-chapter thing as a companion piece to "Something That Belongs to Me" except it's extremely dark and intensely violent: would someone actually be down to read this or should I just bury it in my laptop/take dialogue from it for this story?**

**Review, please**


	8. Haunted

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers make my day- _Majestic Moments_: perhaps laziness? writing this has definitely been more challenging and taxing than "To Lose My Life." I like writing in Micah's point of view too; he isn't secretive or intense, he's just a nice guy. and the companion piece is up! check it out please _theonlyredhead_: I'm sorry, that's just how it turned out! _tenneyshoes_: thanks for the input, and the compliments! it's up now, so feel free to check it out if you'd like to. _Paradoxical Fish_: suspense kills me too, I totally understand. thanks! my multi-chapter thing is officially happening, and it's rated M for safety. _danastarry_: my, you've been busy reading! thank you for both the reviews! _In. Blue. 85_: whoops, did not mean to go all LOTR on you. xD I like Micah's POV too, it's like writing myself!**

**I've been getting a lot of reviews/private messages from people who have just finished "To Lose My Life" and I wanted to thank them all here. Every little comment means a lot to me and keeps me writing this story; I hope it meets your expectations.**

**Chapter title from the song by Evanescence.**

**This is gonna be heavy, guys...**

Haunted

Thursday, May 16, 2013: Provideniya, Russia: Volkov's Warehouse: Ariadne

Ariadne blinked as her blindfold vanished, struggling to become accustomed to the sudden change in light. She was standing in a room, made entirely of cracked gray cement. A few doors were there, leading to different parts of what she assumed to be the rest of the building. There was a table with about a dozen stick chairs surrounding it, and a television in the corner. One wall was almost entirely made up of a weird type of black glass.

"Greetings."

Ariadne turned, finding the owner of the voice. A man, in his fifties and dressed in dark gray slacks and a white sweater had stood and was facing her. He had piercing blue eyes and slicked back black hair, not unlike how Arthur often wore his.

He seemed to be staring directly at her. He lifted his hand, indicating the chairs surrounding the table. "Please, take a seat." She'd been in Moscow long enough to recognize his thick accent: born and raised Russian.

"Where is Arthur?" Ariadne demanded without hesitation, ignoring his offered seat.

The man's lips pressed together in a small smirk. "You've traveled half the world in a very short time, Ms. Chopin."

"Which means I'm ready to see him," Ariadne snapped.

"Patience, Ms. Chopin," the man said. "That's all I ask. Within the hour, you will have seen Mr. Zaleski for yourself. But for now, please sit. We need to talk."

Ariadne stared him down for a moment longer before moving forward. She sat down in the chair he'd indicated. Her eyes never left his face, even as she heard Eames, Micah and Cobb sit around her, all of them wary and on edge.

He smiled. "Excellent." He held out his hand. "Ms. Chopin, my name is Nikolai Volkov."

Ariadne nodded, not surprised. She took his hand. "I would introduce myself, but…"

"No point," Volkov agreed. "It is, uh… Interesting."

"What is?"

He smiled, and she did not like that smile at all. "It is interesting to finally see the woman that broke Arthur Zaleski."

Ariadne's mouth fell open, but before she could articulate a question, demand to know what the hell Volkov meant, Cobb spoke.

"What is it, exactly, you want with Arthur?" He asked. Cobb looked very smooth and collected, and she recalled the Cobb who'd effortlessly guided Robert Fischer through three levels of dreams, all the while battling his own demons. For the first time in a very long time, she felt a thrill of camaraderie for him. She trusted him.

Volkov turned and his face broke into a wider smile when he spotted Cobb. "Mr. Cobb. A pleasure to meet you. I'm glad you could make it." He held out his hand, and Cobb, ever the astute businessman, shook it tightly.

"Where are we, exactly?" Eames wondered, interrupting the exchange.

"And Edward Eames," Volkov said, turning and holding out his hand. Eames took it, staring at Volkov like he was a bug on the underside of his shoe. "Nikolai Volkov."

"Pleasure," Eames said lightly. He shook Volkov's hand quickly, and shifted in his seat, directly next to Ariadne's. As Volkov spoke to Micah with Cobb looking on, bristling, Ariadne leaned forward towards Eames.

"You don't know him?"

Eames shook his head. "I was hoping I would make some connection when I saw him, but I don't recognize him. Yet he seems to know me, which is…" Eames ran a hand over his face. "Concerning, to say the least."

Ariadne blinked. She looked past Eames, to where other men were gathering, hovering near the walls and staring at them. She frowned as Micah and Cobb finished speaking, and Volkov settled into his seat to face them, where they sat united in a line.

"Now that we're all here," Volkov said. "We can… negotiate."

"Negotiate what?" Cobb asked gruffly.

"Mr. Zaleski's release," Volkov replied. "My terms are simple: to square Mr. Zaleski's debt with me and my associates, you will assist him in performing an extraction."

"Hang on," Ariadne said quickly. "Just who are you? What is this 'debt' Arthur owes you?"

Volkov sighed, and motioned one of his men forward. A thick manilla envelope landed on the table and Volkov wasted no time in opening it: a shower of black and white, tattered and old, photographs slid onto the table. Ariadne recognized the man in them immediately.

"Eli," she murmured.

"Ah, so Arthur has told you about his father," Volkov said in approval. "Yes, these are photographs of Ilia Zaleski; I will refrain from using the American name he took, as I never used it with him. You see, Arthur's path and mine have been twisted together for some time now, all because of this man."

Micah's loud gasp caused everyone to look at him. The student looked thunderstruck.

"You killed Arthur's dad!" He exclaimed.

"No," Volkov said swiftly, his expression sour. "But I wish I had." Ariadne glanced at Micah; she knew that Volkov could not have been Eli's murderer, for Arthur himself had told her the story of how he'd tracked down and personally killed the three men who'd broken into his father's Moscow apartment, while Arthur hid under the kitchen table, unseen.

She snapped back to the present when Micah spoke again: "So how did you know him?"

"Ilia and I were schoolmates," Volkov replied. "We were neighbors together in Petrograd. You could say we were best friends. If things had turned out differently... Well, I like to think that I would've been something of an uncle to Arthur.

"But they did not," Volkov continued. "The time was just before what would be known as the Era of Stagnation, and just after World War II: the very middle of what was known as the Cold War between the United States of America and the Soviet Union. And while myself and many of my peers always rallied around our homeland, Ilia and his family felt sympathetic to America. Indeed, Ilia once confessed to me that his parents were discussing plans to flee the Soviet Union for America."

"You probably didn't like that," Eames muttered, so low only Ariadne could hear.

"It was a despicable notion, and I made it clear to Ilia that I could not permit him to even fantasize about it," Volkov said tensely. "And for some time, I believed the matter to be only a boyhood dream. Ilia and I went to university together, where we studied Biology. We worked for the government as biologists, where we put our main focus on neurology and hematology." He studied the group before him. "An interesting combination, decidedly; you could say it was only fit for _dreamers_."

Silence fell. Ariadne's mind was whirring furiously, attempting to put Volkov's words together... She came up with an explanation... But surely-

"The United States Military developed somnacin," Cobb spoke up. "They made the connections, they discovered lucid dreaming-"

"Did they?" Volkov hissed. "I beg to differ, Mr. Cobb. Ilia Zaleski and I were at the front lines of the lucid dreaming movement."

"That's impossible," Micah interrupted. "That would've been in the 1960s-"

Volkov nodded. "The Soviet Union has a long and proud legacy of outstanding psychologists, forefathers and pioneers of psychology before it was even a recognized science. REM sleep was discovered in the early 1950s. A British parapsychologist claimed to have truly discovered the power of lucid dreaming in the 1970s. Ilia and I made the biological connections between."

Ariadne glanced at Cobb, Eames and Micah, knowing the three had a rich history and knowledge of psychology. She was dismayed to see that all three had varied expressions of surprise, amazement and perplex. Could Volkov's claim have some merit after all?

"What did Arthur tell you about his introduction to the world of dream sharing?" Volkov asked smoothly. "That he was picked from near-obscurity? Oh; maybe that the man-Monty Eliot-who chose him was friends with his father? Simple enough reasons, I suppose. But surely, you wondered if there was more?"

_Well, sure_, Ariadne thought. _Arthur's a walking enigma. But I always thought..._

She'd thought it didn't matter. _How can it not matter?_

"Arthur Zaleski was chosen for being the son of a pioneer of shared dreaming," Volkov snapped, fury in his voice. "Ilia Zaleski, who fled to the United States, taking with him the research he and I had worked so hard on. You all know how critical the power of shared dreaming is; its unparalleled usefulness in warfare! The parapsychological advancements! Therapy, bringing coma victims back to life! Revealing the true motives behind the world's most lethal criminals!" Volkov sighed. "Monty Eliot knew what Ilia Zaleski had meant to his military. And after Ilia died, he wasted no time in recruiting the next best thing; Ilia's son."

"So this is all about revenge?" Cobb asked.

Volkov looked at him. "Don't sound so surprised, Mr. Cobb. You of all people know the lengths people go to for revenge." Cobb flushed, as did Micah, while Eames scowled.

"How..." Ariadne swallowed, so her voice wouldn't shake. "How did you find Arthur? How did you bring him into this?"

"Ilia was murdered in Moscow by the KGB," Volkov said. "I was working high up in the government at the time, and learned of the murder then. I was shocked that America had let Ilia return, that they had risked him; I imagine now that Ilia had told them of how despised and wanted dead he was here, but that they foolishly believed they would be able to protect him. When I learned of his murder, I felt relief. I believed his debt to the country, to me, had been paid.

"And then several key retired KGB agents were found murdered."

Volkov sighed. "The Soviet Union had been broken up for over twenty years, and many believed the former agents were randomly killed by disgruntled family members of the people _they_ had killed. But I was curious, and I searched their names. The four agents who were killed were all involved in the murder of Ilia Zaleski. I knew it could not be coincidence; someone from Ilia's life was getting revenge."

"How did you know it was Arthur?" Eames asked.

"What you must understand about me, Mr. Eames, is that I never forget," Volkov said. "I am still, to this day, deeply involved and connected with shared dreaming science. I know a lot about it. I know that Stephen Miles has been shepherding new recruits from Paris to universities and research labs annually, and that his son-in-law is a well-known in the black market for the extracting skills Stephen taught to him." Cobb's face was ashen, but Volkov wasn't done. "I know the names of the best in the business, and that includes a certain forger from Hammersmith, England." Eames' lip twitched slightly, as Volkov turned to Micah and Ariadne. "Mr. Harper, I knew of you because I've been in contact with a man called Peter Browning for a year and a half. And I was in contact with Peter Browning because I had broadcast a warrant for the arrest of Arthur Beckett Zaleski in 2005."

"So Browning told you where you could find his body," Cobb finished. "Must've been a neat trick to find him alive. But how exactly did you know Arthur was the one you were after?"

Volkov began to pace. "I knew only a handful of people could've cared enough for Ilia to murder his killers. And, expecting Ilia to have raised his sons with as strong a commitment and tie to family over state as his own unusual family did, I assumed Adam or Arthur was responsible. And while Adam Zaleski became a trauma surgeon in Los Angeles, Arthur Zaleski died as a prisoner of war. Before turning up as a black market point man in shared dreaming several years later. And that was when I knew that Arthur had inherited his father's legacy in the military, his skills in lucid dreaming, and had sought revenge on his murder. Ever since that moment of realization, I have been searching for Arthur. He needs to learn why things happened the way they did, why his father deserved to die. I have punished Arthur for what Ilia should've been punished for."

"That's obscene!" Eames exclaimed. "It's Ilia you're so angry at, not Arthur-"

"Ah, but like I said," Volkov interrupted. "Ilia believed in family before country, before _honor_. I am merely playing by his rules: rather than allowing the system to claim Ilia's debt, I have seen it as being passed on to his son."

Ariadne's head felt heavy. Volkov's insanity was startling, for a part of her could see his reasoning. But it only increased her trepidation more: what had happened to Arthur?

"Okay," she murmured. "Let's say we do this extraction for you. What happens?"

"You are allowed to leave Russia, and never return here again," Volkov said smoothly.

They looked at each other for several long moments. Ariadne stared at Volkov, waiting…

"And then…?" Cobb waited.

Volkov shrugged. "Nothing. Mr. Zaleski goes free."

"That doesn't make any sense," Ariadne said slowly. Volkov looked at her, eyebrow raised. She cleared her throat, leaning towards Volkov. "If that was all you wanted from Arthur, then why have you kept him here for so long?"

Volkov's eyes flashed. "Don't be so naïve, Ms. Chopin. Mr. Zaleski has slowly been paying his debt for the past twenty months. We've established a personal reconciliation. Now it's time for the professional, and he's just not in the right… condition to do it on his own."

Before she knew what she was doing, Ariadne was on her feet. She was trembling in horror.

"What have you done to him?" She demanded.

Volkov blinked at her. "Nothing that he didn't expect. I should know; he repeated that quite often." Volkov studied Ariadne, his head turned to the side. "Almost as much as he said your name. It became a mantra of sorts. I think he was trying to keep… sane."

"_Sane?_" Ariadne demanded, her fists clenching.

She felt a hand on her shirt. Eames. "Ariadne…"

"Yes, just like that," Volkov said smoothly, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "_Ariadne, Ariadne, Ariadne_… He couldn't believe how you left him. He kept throwing that ridiculous dice, trying to convince himself that this wasn't really reality…" Volkov smiled wolfishly. "So it's no wonder his grip on what is real and what isn't has become rather skewed."

Cobb figured it out before Ariadne did. "You've been torturing him." Her insides turned to ice and she froze, unable to move.

"Not physically," Volkov said. "At least, not often. And we couldn't for the longest time. When we came across Mr. Zaleski, he was more than half-dead. Our best surgeons immediately started surgery to remove the bullets. One bullet tore a hole through his small intestine and the other broke through an aorta in his heart. We lost him twice on the operating table."

Ariadne forced herself to keep breathing. _He's alive, he's alive_.

"But something kept him here," Volkov continued. "I've never seen a will to live like his. He refused to die."

And Ariadne remembered how she'd forced Arthur to promise her that he would not give up, that he would try to live…

"How have you been torturing him?" Eames demanded, his voice cold.

"You would call it brainwashing," Volkov replied airily. "It isn't quite inception, though we have visited Mr. Zaleski's dreams many times." His eyes snapped to Ariadne. "He remembers you perfectly. Not a difference." He turned back to Eames. "No, we simply coerce him, using techniques taken directly from the Russian military handbook, along with my unique knowledge on the way the mind works within dreams. We tell him that he is wrong, that he is worthless, that his world is not what he thinks it is. He believes us. He's accepted the idea. He is no longer the Arthur you all knew and, in some cases…" Volkov looked directly at Ariadne when he spoke the final word: "_Loved_."

"You bastard-" Cobb got to his feet, lunging at Volkov. He didn't get far before two men had seized him, preventing him from reaching the other man.

"Please, Mr. Cobb," Volkov said. "It is not dissimilar to what you told your wife, is it not?"

Cobb visibly deflated. "Arthur did not deserve that."

"I disagree."

Ariadne had had enough of this. She faced Volkov. "I need to see him."

Volkov shrugged. "I suppose you've waited long enough." He turned and nodded at one of the other men. That man strode to the wall with the weird glass. Volkov turned and left the room without a word.

"What the hell?" Eames muttered.

Before anyone could do anything, the man pressed a button Ariadne had not seen.

The glass shivered and then began to… recede? Ariadne stared, transfixed, as the glass slid back, revealing a hidden room.

Ariadne gasped and ran forward, pressing her palms against the window.

It showed a smaller room, made completely of cement. It was a cell, complete with a small bed, blanket and pillows. A small stack of books rested on the floor. Bars ran across one side of the room, where a door opened. Volkov stepped into the small space, looking at the man behind the bars.

He was standing away from Ariadne, bouncing a tennis ball against one of the cement walls. He was wearing thick wool socks and black sweats, a black ski hat pulled over his head. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and Ariadne stared at his bare back, recognizing the scars that were her own personal road map home.

She'd know him anywhere, even though she hadn't seen him in seventeen months.

"Arthur," she moaned. She pounded the glass desperately. "Arthur! Arthur!"

"He can't hear you," the man who'd opened the window said. "It's a one way mirror. He doesn't know you're there."

Ariadne quickly turned back to Arthur, who continued to bounce the tennis ball, ignoring Volkov.

"Hello Arthur," Volkov said. He approached the bars, leaning on them and watching.

"Nikolai," Arthur replied, just as smoothly. "What brings you down here? Can't be time for dinner yet, and I doubt you're here for my pleasant company."

Ariadne heard a laugh and she turned as Eames approached the glass, standing beside her. He was smiling, eyes locked on Arthur. "You tell him, darling."

"Not quite," Volkov replied. "Arthur, what would you do if I told you that your friends had finally come for you?"

Arthur continued to pound the tennis ball against the wall, and didn't respond.

"Your friends," Volkov said. "Micah Harper. Edward Eames. Dominic Cobb." He paused for the effect. "Ariadne Chopin. They're here."

He finally paused, holding the tennis ball. "I don't believe you."

"Why?"

Arthur turned, dropping the ball and approaching Volkov, standing on the other side of the bars. He shook his head minutely. "They can't be here. Not now."

"Do you not want to see them?"

"That's not…" Arthur sighed irritatedly. "That doesn't have to do with anything."

"I disagree," Volkov said. "They want to see you. From the moment she got here, all Ariadne's been saying-"

Arthur slammed his hand against one of the bars. "Don't. Don't say her name."

"Still convinced she doesn't love you?"

Ariadne gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in horror. She remembered Volkov's descriptions of the brainwashing, but… Had it gone that far?

Arthur ignored Volkov. Instead, he turned back to his cell, pacing, still not looking at the glass. Ariadne stared at his face, the bruises that were there, that ran down the length of his visible arm. He looked more defeated than she could ever have imagined.

"Leave me alone, Nikolai," he whispered. "Just… stop it."

Volkov frowned. "Stop what, Arthur?"

He closed his eyes. "Let me go. Please, for the love of…" Arthur shook his head, turning back around to face Volkov. "Don't look stupid, Nikolai. You know what I'm talking about."

"Your friends don't," Volkov said, which was true. Ariadne was practically pressed against the glass.

Arthur sighed. "They aren't really here."

"Then humor me. What do you want, Arthur?"

"_I want to die_."

Ariadne's mouth fell open, her response mirrored by Micah's gasp of astonishment and horror. Beside her, Eames' eyes were huge.

Arthur stared at Volkov, not flinching. It was clear: he meant it.

"No," Ariadne croaked.

"What if I were to say I'd shoot you, right this minute?" Volkov asked.

Arthur lifted his arms. "Go for it. Don't miss."

"NO!" Ariadne screamed. She pounded the glass furiously. She was sobbing, tears flowing quickly. "No, Arthur, no! You don't want this! Stay!"

She heard the static of a radio, as the man beside her spoke into his: "She's hysterical."

Volkov smiled, and Arthur stared at the radio in confusion. Volkov turned, facing the glass.

"You see, Ms. Chopin," he called, ignoring the way Arthur stiffened. "I said I would give him back to you. I never said in what condition."

Arthur spun as he spoke, and Ariadne was looking straight at him for the first time. Her breathing hitched.

He looked… _awful_. Arthur had always had a thousand scars, but there were two new ones on his chest that were devastating. One ran over his abdomen, thick and ugly, just like the one directly over his heart. The scars were black, the red at the edges hinting at past infection.

"Bloody hell," Eames whispered. "No wonder he flatlined twice."

Ariadne spun, running to the door Volkov had exited out of. To her surprise, it was unlocked. She flew through it, trying doors in the hallway, until one opened and she fell into Arthur's cell.

Volkov turned, quite impassive as she burst inside. Ariadne ignored him, walking quickly to the bars. She grasped them, locking eyes with Arthur.

"Arthur," she croaked.

"Ariadne," he said, shock obvious in his voice. He simply stared at her, his auburn eyes wide with stupefaction. She gripped the bars tightly, drinking in the site of him, her mind struggling to process that he was really there. She whipped her head around, locking eyes on Volkov. "Let me in."

Volkov looked past her. "Is that okay, Arthur?" Ariadne turned back around.

Arthur was still staring at her, his mouth slightly open. Now in the flesh, she realized how truly desolate and broken he looked. His skin was unnaturally pale, except in the places it had darkened with healing bruises. He was skinnier than she'd ever seen him, his ribs jutting out more than ever before. She could see odd welts all over him, like from cigarette butts or something even more foreboding and dangerous…

He swallowed. "Ariadne, why are you here?"

She stared at him. "I'm here for you. I came to get you." When he did nothing but continue to stare, she raised her voice. "They sent me a photograph of you, and told me to come to Moscow, if I wanted you back. And I do. I've missed you so much…" Unable to help herself, she pressed herself to the bars, raising a hand towards him. "Please. Let me in."

"You shouldn't have come," Arthur whispered. He started shaking his head desperately, his hands fidgeting in anxiety. She gaped as his voice shot up, and he was yelling at her. "You shouldn't have come! There's nothing left for you here!"

"What do you mean?" She gasped. Arthur slid to the floor, grasping his hat with both hands and rocking back and forth.

"I'm talking about _me_," Arthur said, answering her question after several moments of this behavior. "I have nothing left for you. I'm worthless to you. You'd be better off without me."

He trembled even more violently, and ripped the hat from his head. She couldn't prevent her gasp of shock; they'd shaved his head. He heard her, and lifted his head, misinterpreting her response.

"I'm dead," he moaned, like he was in pain, like a thousand knives were being plunged into his sides. He stared at her and began to scream again: "Go! Leave me here! Let me die!"

"You don't mean that," she whispered.

"I do!" He snapped. Then he was on his feet again, rushing towards her, and she managed to keep her stance even though she'd never seen him like this, so deranged and desperate. "Ariadne, you have no idea. I can't… I'm ruined. I can't… I can't _function_. I don't feel human anymore. I just want to be put out of my misery."

Ariadne took a shaking breath. She lifted her arm, reaching for him, but Arthur stepped back, staring at her face.

"Don't," she moaned. "Please don't… I can't lose you again…"

"Listen to me," he snapped. "Ariadne, look at me. _Look at me._"

She did, her tears cascading down her cheeks, unstoppable. She met Arthur's eyes, which were dark and totally empty.

"The Arthur you knew and loved," he whispered. "He's gone, Ariadne. Look in my eyes and tell me I'm mistaken. You can see it, I see it, and it destroys me. He's been gone for a long time. I'm the shell that's left, and I hurt so _much_, and I just want it to end…" He blinked. "You're not losing _me_, because I've been dead for months."

"No," she croaked.

"Eames is here, right?" Arthur checked. He turned away from her abruptly and walked to the glass. "Eames. Please listen to what I'm saying. She won't kill me, but I know you will, because you told me once that you would listen to me and do what I asked. And that's what I'm asking for now. Come in here and-"

"God dammit!" Ariadne exploded furiously. She spun back to Volkov. "Open the door."

Volkov looked impassive. "But Ms. Chopin, if he-"

"He's not in his right mind!" She hissed. "Do not ask me to just stand here and listen to this. It's all your fault he's like this. _You_ did this to him."

"That doesn't mean it falls on me to fix him," Volkov replied.

"You're right," Ariadne snapped. "It falls on me. And it's obvious that I can't help him from here."

Volkov studied her. "How do you intend-"

"_Open the fucking door!_" Ariadne yelled. "I'll help him do your job, but he's still mine, and I want-"

"I'm not yours."

The comment came from inside the cell. Ariadne twisted around, realizing Arthur had spoken. He took a deep breath and walked over to her, standing just inside the bars, the closest to her he'd been.

"Look." He turned around and she saw something new: at the back of his head, a place commonly covered with dark brown hair, was an odd black tattoo. She leaned forward and saw what she recognized as Russian symbols, but she was too far away to read them.

"I will never be free, Ariadne," Arthur murmured. "This is a reminder that I'm only ever going to belong to them. I'm so sorry."

She heard a click, and she realized Volkov had opened the cell door while she was distracted. She darted forward and inside the cell, standing beside Arthur. He looked beseechingly at her.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured. "This is why you need to leave me. I'm nothing, I'm no good for you, and I'm never going to be the man you fell in love with. He's gone, and I'd like to join him. Because I can feel my mind falling apart, because I don't know what's real and what isn't, and I can't trust anyone. Please, Ariadne. Please…"

She hated this. She hated every part of it, how his voice trembled, how he was shaking all over. This wasn't Arthur; he had that part right. She gulped and took a couple small steps forward, until she stood directly in front of him. Slowly, she lifted her hand and pressed it to his bony cheek.

He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Ariadne…"

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't let you go. I'm too selfish. I've missed you so much, Arthur. I've been so lonely, and I don't know what to do without you, and I love you, I love you more than I can say…"

Arthur's eyes opened, and it was like looking into pools of black tar, endless nothingness. His demeanor changed completely; from broken and begging to barely controlled fury and white hot pain.

"That's too bad, Ariadne," he said harshly, his voice foreign to her. "Because I can't love you anymore."

As Ariadne's world fell to pieces, Volkov merely smiled.

**Yikes. Review, please**

**also, that other story I mentioned is up: "Endlessly." check it out if you'd like something to read while waiting for this story to update. though be warned: I did rate it M, just in case.**


	9. Yes Please

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers! Gotta love em (and I do!)- ****_Lazarus76_****: wow, that was fast! thank you. ****_theonlyredhead_****: I'm glad you still like the story! that would've been a bummer otherwise... ****_Paradoxical Fish_****: ugh the extraction job... so much writer's block around that. you'll find out what everyone else thinks in the coming chapters... And I'm glad you're reading the other story! ****_A Shadow Away_****: haha I love that reaction ****_danastarry_****: "bad mamma-jammas"? gonna have to write that one down... thanks! ****_In. Blue. 85_****: I do too! ****_LeslieSophia_****: yeah I think I know what you mean. thanks! ****_Knuckiducki_****: yay! I love it when my writing gets an emotional response, that's such a compliment. And yes, you were right! What do you think of Volkov's past with Eli? Weird? Okay? and thanks for reading "Endlessly"! ****_MajesticMoments_****: Here we go with more reactions! thanks for the response! ****_gina1276_****: me too...**

**I'm sorry about the delay. I've had terrible writer's block and just finishing this chapter was strenuous. Kudos to Lazarus76 for the advice on how to get past it; it worked!**

**NOTE: This is an updated/edited version of this chapter.**

**Chapter title from the song by Muse. Yeahhhhh!**

Yes Please

Saturday, May 18, 2013: Provideniya, Russia: Volkov's Warehouse: Eames

_Tap tap tap_.

Eames' pen mashed against the smooth steel of the table that was acting as his desk. It was just after five o'clock, not that a glance at the skies outside would be able to reveal that; they were so far north that it was permanently dark and stormy outside. (Eames had checked a map earlier that morning to find out exactly where the hell he was, pleasantly surprised to see they were somewhat close to the Bering Strait, and therefore, Alaska.)

Presently, he was supposed to be studying Ariadne's first draft of the dream layout. The job would be ridiculously easy: one level, and not even a forge for Eames. After Volkov had told him he'd be coming along as someone to shoot and kill projections, Eames had been bewildered as to why Volkov had dragged him into this in the first place. It was clear that any of his men could do the job Eames was expected to do. But then it'd hit him: having him here, witnessing the new Arthur, and forcing Arthur to be in his company again... It was one more blow for both of them.

Speaking of: Eames couldn't stop staring at Arthur.

The point man was a shell of his former self in every possible way. As someone who studied the behavior, mannerisms and physical features of others for a living, Eames was experiencing an unfortunate field day with Arthur.

He was at least thirty pounds skinnier, and the ragged sweater and jeans he was wearing hung off him like a loose shroud. He was also jumpier, and struggling to sit still; Eames had witnessed him shifting around in his chair, shuffling around the room, nervously touching the wool hat that covered his bald head. Eames sighed as Arthur slowly drank a cup of coffee, his hands twitching all the while.

Micah was a constant presence at Arthur's side. The student appeared wary as he organized files and maps, never looking away from Arthur for more than a minute at a time. Whenever Arthur paused for longer than a few seconds- to merely stare into space, undoubtedly at things Eames (and no one else, for that matter) could see- Micah showed every sign of wanting to assist him, only for Arthur to snap out of it before Micah could reach him.

Cobb, on the other hand, had fallen into his old role of leader with effortless grace. He shadowed Volkov, his expression tense, not giving away any of the underlying tension Eames knew Cobb was experiencing, after the events of two days' previously.

_"That's too bad, Ariadne. Because I can't love you anymore."_

_The shock and horror on Ariadne's face was an expression Eames would never forget. He watched, frozen, as Ariadne's hand fell hopelessly, how her shoulders sagged. Arthur merely stared her down, the warm love for her that Eames had seen in his eyes the last time they'd met was completely gone. Arthur was looking at her now like she was a stranger; no, worse than a stranger._

_The opposite of love is not hate, after all; it truly is indifference. That was how Arthur was looking at her. Like she didn't matter one bit._

_Volkov began to speak, words Eames was largely too stunned to process. He slowly became aware of how tightly clenched his fists were, how he was trembling like he was about to enter the fight of his life. Beside him, Micah took a deep breath._

_"What happened to him?" The student whispered, his eyes locked on Arthur._

_As Eames watched, Volkov beckoned to Arthur and Ariadne. Arthur glanced at her once, before shuffling towards Volkov live an obedient lap dog. Volkov looked at Ariadne, who walked after him emotionlessly, her eyes wide and oddly vacant. Eames winced when the light caught the scars on Arthur's chest; he couldn't believe how Arthur was still walking. Those scars looked rife with infection, badly healed. Arthur needed to go to a hospital right away._

But how do you explain the scars? _Eames asked himself. They were obviously the product of a near-death traumatic incident, and Eames knew Arthur was in no position, psychologically or anything else, to adequately lie away._

_The door opened, and Volkov appeared, with Arthur and Ariadne. Arthur's dark brown eyes swept the room once (Eames almost smiled at this familiar characteristic, the basics of Arthur's training to always scan the area for danger) before settling on Cobb._

_"Cobb," he murmured. He didn't say anything else, and Cobb's mouth opened like he wanted to speak, before it closed with a crack. Cobb was speechless. Arthur moved on._

_"Micah," Arthur said, nodding to the student._

_Micah straightened. His glasses were smudged- from tears, Eames guessed- but his posture was straight. He clearly didn't want to show any other sign of weakness in front of Volkov. "Arthur," Micah whispered. "Hey."_

_But Arthur had already moved on from Micah, to Eames. Eames was stunned by the blank darkness in Arthur's eyes._

_"Eames," he said._

_"Arthur," Eames replied. He glanced behind Arthur and spotted Ariadne. Her arms were wrapped around her chest, eyes focused only on Volkov. From his vantage point, Eames caught a glimpse of silver at her throat and felt the sudden urge to smack Arthur upside the head, in the hope of bringing his sanity back._

_Arthur turned away from Eames, looking instead to Volkov. The way he was looking at Volkov was somewhat familiar to Eames; but something was off about it._

_Volkov snapped his fingers and one of his burly henchmen stepped forward, carrying a stack of files. As he passed each team member a file, Volkov spoke._

_"The job will take place in two days' time," Volkov said smoothly. Eames accepted his file without comment and opened it. The English was choppy, and he knew it'd been roughly translated from Russian. He scanned the accompanying photographs as Volkov continued to speak. "It will be very simple. I do not foresee a single challenge that could occur."_

_"Who is Natasha Krupin?" Cobb asked, noting the name of the mark. Natasha Krupin had dark hair and pale skin; she was older, in her sixties._

_"Not your concern," Volkov replied. "You do not need to concern yourselves with the details of the job. You will simply do what I expect. Mr. Cobb, you will work as my point man while I do the extraction. Ms. Chopin will design the single dream level. She will then join Mr. Eames and Mr. Harper in accompanying Arthur with the private task I have assigned him to complete."_

_"Do we get to know what that is?" Eames wondered snidely._

_Volkov fixed him with a dark smirk. "No, I don't think so. Take comfort, Mr. Eames; you may not even have to do anything on this job!"_

_But Eames was no longer listening to Volkov. He was staring at Arthur, finally recognizing that look on his face: Arthur was watching Volkov like he used to watch Cobb. Attentively, and with a reverence and respect. But there was something odd, too, in his expression, and it finally hit Eames as to what it was: fear._

Eames snapped out of it when Cobb appeared in front of him. The extractor looked irritated.

"We're ready," he huffed.

Eames shuffled over to the heavy metal table. A woman was already unconscious, slumped in her chair, a bloody gash on her forehead: Eames knew this was the mark, recognizing her from the photographs. Volkov was sitting opposite of the woman, sticking the needle into his wrist. Arthur was present beside him, staring straight ahead at nothing. Micah was on his other side, his eyes anxiously twitching from side to side as he tried to keep an eye on the henchmen at all times. Eames chose to sit next to Ariadne, who was biting her nails with abandon.

"Sweetheart, you've just had dinner," Eames commented to her.

Ariadne frowned, but placed her hands in her lap. "Sorry." Eames wanted to say something more, but found the words would not come. Instead, he accepted the offered needle without comment.

Volkov surveyed them all. Satisfied that they were ready, he nodded to the man beside the PASIV. "Here we go," he called.

They plunged into the dream.

Eames was next to Ariadne, in a hole-in-the-wall Russian tavern. Ariadne's attention to detail was striking. There were spiderwebs, dim lighting, cracks in the wood bar, dirty glasses next to clean ones. The place was very dark, but Eames could see Cobb's profile, sitting at a table in the corner with Volkov, and... the mark? Eames frowned; that didn't seem right.

"Where is he?" Ariadne asked softly. Her eyes were darting around nervously, and Eames quickly cottoned on to what she was talking about: Arthur, and for that matter, Micah, were not in sight.

"Maybe-" Eames started but broke off, a flash of light catching his attention. He and Ariadne spun around, just in time to see Micah's form disappear through a doorway into a bright room. Eames and Ariadne exchanged a glance before hurrying after him.

Eames burst through the door, and immediately closed his eyes. This room, the kitchen, was much brighter than the bar they'd just come from. He had to open his eyes when Ariadne screamed.

Arthur had Micah in a chokehold, pressing the student against the wall. Even though Micah was taller than Arthur by several inches, Arthur was effortlessly holding him high enough that his sneaker-clad toes barely scraped the ground. Micah was gasping, hands scrabbling and scratching at Arthur's.

Eames acted instantly. He ran forward and tackled Arthur to the floor. Micah slid down the wall, heaving, and Ariadne knelt beside him.

"What are you doing?" She cried, eyes on Arthur.

Eames would've offered his own exclamation, but found his attention strained as he was now full on fighting with Arthur. He'd never done this before, and found he did not enjoy it. Eames had never fought with a soldier, and it was only moments before he knew that Arthur would win this one. But he was still surprised to find his right hand handcuffed around a table leg.

"What..." He broke off, staring at Arthur. "Why didn't you just kill me?"

"Volkov wants you to be here for this," Arthur said in response.

Though Eames knew he would regret it, he had to ask: "For what?"

"For what I'm taking from Natasha Krupin," Arthur murmured. He'd approached a safe hidden in the oven and was opening it, mouthing words to himself. Eames looked over at Micah and Ariadne, wondering what he was missing; both looked bewildered.

Arthur pulled out several documents and looked them over with disinterest. Eames had to gasp when Arthur pulled out several sticks of dynamite from his pocket and placed them in the safe.

"Arthur, you can't!" Eames yelled in horror. "You're going to ruin her mind, she'll never be the same-"

"What?" Micah asked, terrified.

Eames looked over at the student. "Her mind will be broken. She'll become essentially, a fucking vegetable. No grasp on who she was-"

"Arthur," Ariadne whispered. "Who is she?"

Arthur finally looked at them. "For the last couple years, Natasha has been crusading to have her brother recognized for his scientific advancements in the world of medicine."

It hit Eames. "No..."

"Natasha is my father's sister. She's the last Russian relation I have, the last _family_ I have outside of my mother and brother. And she's the last one who knows who Ilia was and what he did," Arthur finished.

Ariadne looked horrified. "Arthur, no. She's your aunt..."

He looked at her. "No. She was Arthur's aunt."

He threw a match into the safe; the dynamite caught fire. Arthur closed the safe and simply stood there, watching it. A moment later, there was a sudden boom, and the whole room began to tremble.

Eames caught Arthur's eye, and immediately wished he hadn't. As the room fell away, he heard Arthur speak, and caught his words moments before he woke up:

"_Now we're gone_."

**IT'S DONE. HALLELUJAH.**

**Review, please**


	10. Quelqu'un m'a dit

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Thanks to the reviews, whose encouragement keeps me going! _Guest 1:_ Yeah, I noticed it seemed to be having issues the night I posted, but when I checked the next morning, everything looked okay. Hopefully you saw the chapter. _Nina.4444_: wow, thanks! this is as soon as I could do... _theonlyredhead_: nope, not finished! that would be so mean, to leave it like that. _Paradoxical Fish_: a request for more Micah? I'll take that as a serious compliment, since he's my character! we'll hear from him, but his next POV will be chapter 12. _In. Blue. 85_: It's been so long, too! _Lazarus76_: thanks! always an honor to get a review from you _Guest 1_: glad you got the chapter! this is Ariadne's POV so maybe it'll give some insight... and note below regarding Natasha. _Laura-x_: yay! thank you! happy that you're following "To Lose My Life" with this _Knuckiducki_: OMG long review! love it. we're leaving Volkov in this chapter (for now...) I had some fun w/ the background, thrilled you liked it/it worked for you. yeah I think I leave hints. not as much as I'd like, but that's the con of posting as you go. _MajesticMoments_: no worries about the tardiness of your review, because I dropped the ball posting this.**

**Hey, Guest Reviewers: I'd like to thank you individually, so if you want to leave a name to go by, that'd help me out. Thanks x **

**NOTE: There was some confusion regarding the end of the previous chapter, which I've since edited/re-posted. Arthur effectively killed Natasha, who was his father's sister. The confusion stemmed from, I believe, the fact I hadn't changed a few pronouns from "he" to "she". Sorry about that.**

**And WOW, sorry about the atrocious delays. I've taken to re-reading "To Lose My Life" in an effort to get my groove back, and it's been pretty fruitful; inspiring both plot lines and self-deprecation.**

**Chapter title from the lovely song by Carla Bruni. (translated as, I believe, "somebody told me")**

Quelqu'un m'a dit

Saturday, May 18, 2013: Provideniya, Russia: Volkov's Warehouse: Ariadne

It was fiercely cold to Ariadne, at forty degrees fahrenheit, having come from Manhattan where the temperatures were routinely at least sixty degrees fahrenheit this time of year. She was sitting on the frozen tundra, some distance away from Volkov's warehouse, her arms crossed tightly around her legs, pressed against her chest. The wind blew, picking up the loose tendrils of her hair, and she closed her eyes.

She imagined she was back on the bench in Paris, sitting with Arthur. He was smiling at her and laughing, his dark brown eyes so warm and filled with love and adoration. He was holding her hand, and her head was pressed against his shoulder and they weren't saying anything, not a single word, because they didn't have to. They were crazy in love, and already knew everything that could've been said.

Ariadne didn't want to leave her fantasy. She remembered the feel of Arthur's expensive suit, pressing her nose into his shoulder to catch his scent, that alluring smell of aftershave. She touched his cheek, her fingers marveling at how smooth his skin was, how whenever they touched it felt like an electric spark had leapt between them. She ghosted her fingers through his hair, the bumpy texture of it, and then Arthur caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her fingers gently and she laughed and opened her mouth to speak-

"Ariadne?"

She snapped out of it, scrambling around. But it was only Micah, his bright red hair blowing in the wind, his blue eyes wide with nervousness behind his glasses. He was bundled up, in his thick winter jacket, jeans and sneakers. He approached her slowly, and gestured to the space next to her.

"May I sit with you?" He asked, ever so polite.

Ariadne nodded, and Micah flopped onto the ground next to her, tucking his long legs under him in a criss-cross position. Together, they surveyed the arctic tundra, the patches of ice and snow, the emptiness of it all.

"It's funny," Micah said suddenly. "Before I left Houston, I'd only seen snow once in my life, when my parents took me and my siblings up to Canada for winter break. And then I moved to New York, and Massachusetts, and I got used to being buried up to my waist in snow every winter. It should be just an old, boring fact of life by now, but it isn't really. I still get excited when I notice it's snowing, and I still steal a lunch tray from the dining hall and go sledding on the closed streets."

Ariadne stared at Micah, completely taken off guard and bewildered as to why he was telling her all this. Micah blushed at her confused look.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I was just trying to break the ice."

"Oh," Ariadne said, immediately feeling guilty. "You don't have to. We've met before."

"What are you doing out here, all alone?"

Ariadne sighed, looking out at the barren land, trying to find the right words. "Just trying to collect my thoughts, I guess. It's a bit suffocating in there."

Micah nodded sagely. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Cobb's getting our flights out of Russia together, but then there's Eames and Arthur..." He grimaced. "It's kind of like watching a one-sided conversation."

After exiting the dream an hour earlier, Eames had continued to freak out and panic. He'd accosted Arthur right away, yelling and screeching at him, before a bemused Cobb and satisfied Volkov. And while Eames explained to Cobb what had transpired-that Arthur had all but murdered his father's sister, the woman trying to preserve his father's memory-Ariadne had stared at the body of Natasha. For that was all she was now: a body. A heartbeat.

The nightmare of what Arthur had just committed, a heinous act to someone the old Arthur had surely loved, or would've, if he'd known her, was too much for Ariadne to cope with. She'd fled out of the warehouse, trying to run away from Volkov's smirk, Arthur's empty expression, Eames horrified caterwauling.

"Eames keeps trying to get Arthur to wake up and realize what he's done," Micah continued, oblivious to Ariadne's memories. "But, uh… somehow I think that's easier said than accomplished."

"Micah," Ariadne murmured. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Micah asked blankly.

Ariadne sighed impatiently. _Gee, what could I possibly be asking about?_ "The dream. Arthur attacking you…"

"Oh, right," Micah said, nodding. "Yeah. That sucked."

"That sucked." Ariadne stared.

Micah blushed. "Alright, that's a bit of an understatement. It was… terrifying. Traumatic. I think, if there'd been any sign of water…"

Ariadne understood, without Micah needing to finish that sentence. She could remember, all too well, the day where Arthur had half-drowned Micah in the Pacific Ocean. Even though every party had been forgiven-and everyone knew why Arthur had done it-she wasn't shocked in the slightest to know Micah was still haunted by the incident.

"You seem much better, though," Ariadne commented.

"Being assaulted by Arthur, it isn't exactly something one gets… 'used to,'" Micah said, smirking slightly. "But, this time at least… Getting mad at him would be like getting mad at a bear for attacking you. It's instinct."

Ariadne picked at her nails. "He's not himself."

"Oh certainly," Micah confirmed. "I mean, just the way he went after me… All gut, no skill. Freaking Eames could've done the same thing."

Ariadne laughed. "I feel like Eames would resent that remark."

"Eh, he can handle it."

They fell into a companionable silence. Ariadne gazed out over the empty tundra, all ice and pale brown and dark gray sky. There was no sign of characterization, nothing remarkable to salvage from the sight.

"Ariadne," Micah said softly. "What happens next?"

The million dollar question. Where was Ariadne's plan, her ultimate agenda towards bringing Arthur back? She chose her words carefully.

"We'll take him back to the States," she mused. "I'm hoping Miles might be able to help, so we'll probably go to Chicago first. After that… I have _no_ idea."

"I want to help."

Ariadne looked at Micah. She found herself unsurprised at his proclamation, though still deeply grateful and humbled. She opened her mouth to respond, but Micah interrupted.

"I have time. I'm out of school, and my internship doesn't start for a while, and then I'd only have to be in New York, and you live in New York, so Arthur'll probably be there too-"

"Micah," Ariadne interrupted gently. "It's okay. I'm glad you want to help him."

"Okay, good." Micah flushed, and Ariadne squeezed his hand.

A shrill whistle made them look around. Eames was standing outside the warehouse, arms raised. He beckoned them towards the building, before heading inside himself.

"Guess that's our cue," Micah muttered.

They picked their way back across the ice to Eames, who was rubbing his gloved hands together.

"Bloody cold, isn't it?" He asked.

Ariadne ignored the comment. "Time to go?"

"Soon. Volkov's talking with Cobb." Eames held the door open for them.

Ariadne spotted Cobb and Volkov standing in the main area, talking quietly over a pile of papers; she guessed they were discussing the job. Next to them was a new sight. Arthur was dressed in boots, jeans and a long dark buttoned jacket, a black tuque on his head to cover up the baldness. He was standing next to Cobb. For one wild moment, Ariadne imagined Cobb was about to tell her to get to work on her models and that Arthur was going undercover for the job.

As she watched, Arthur interrupted their conversation, gesturing to something on a sheet in front of them. Volkov and Cobb listened patiently, nodding and adding their own comments. Arthur turned away at the sound of Eames, Micah and Ariadne arriving. He muttered something to Cobb and squeezed the man's shoulder before walking away.

He paused next to Eames. "Leaving in ten minutes," he said softly, sounding just like the old Arthur.

Eames scowled. "Not soon enough."

"You'll survive, Mr. Eames," Arthur said dryly. Ariadne almost laughed; the comment was so familiar. But then Arthur's eyes barely ghosted over Arthur, and herself, and he disappeared down the hall without so much as a hello. Confused, and worried, Ariadne found her feet taking her after him.

He was back in his cell, packing a sparse amount of clothes into a duffel bag. She hovered in the doorway, uncertain as to what to say.

She eventually chose to be casual: "Hey."

Arthur glanced up. "Hello."

Ariadne bit her lip, but Arthur only continued to pack, carefully depositing black sneakers in the bag. "Um, how are you?"

"Fine," Arthur said smoothly. "Glad to be out of Russia."

"Yeah, you never wanted to come back," Ariadne said. Arthur suddenly straightened and stared at her, giving her his full attention for the first time since their first encounter on Thursday. She swallowed. "After your father died... You told me once, 'if I never have to go back to Russia, it'll be too soon.'"

"I said that to you?"

Her heart broke at his surprise. "Yes, you did."

"Hm." He considered this. "Well, I suppose I can imagine myself saying something like that." He zipped the bag closed and looked at her. "Ariadne, what's going to happen to me?"

She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure. I mean, we'll probably go to Chicago first. Miles is there with the kids, and he'll want to see you..."

"You'll be there?"

She found herself smiling. "Yes, I will. I won't leave you."

Silence fell, but before either could speak, there was a knock on the door: Eames was there, looking awkward.

"We're set," he murmured.

Arthur picked up the bag, swinging it onto his shoulder. But he paused for a moment, to look at Ariadne. She held her breath, waiting...

"Thank you," he said softly. "That's kind of you."

And he was gone, with only a swift nod at Eames. Ariadne remained utterly still for a moment, forcing her body to breathe again and accept Arthur's statement. She eventually got her legs moving again, but Eames' hand on her shoulder gave her pause.

"Are you alright, Ari?" He asked sympathetically.

She nodded. "I'm fine, Edward." But the unsettled feeling in her stomach remained. She and Eames walked down the hall, and outside, where Volkov was standing next to a large van, with Cobb, Micah and Arthur all waiting.

"It looks like this is where we say goodbye," Volkov said. His voice still carried a trace of triumph that Ariadne abhorred. "It has been… Interesting, to finally meet you all. I wish you the best."

"Wish I could say the same, buddy," Eames said, surprising Volkov by clapping him on the back. He exchanged a meaningful look with Cobb before hopping into the driver's side of the waiting van. The engine started with a roar.

Micah glared at Volkov before obediently shuffling after Eames. He scrambled into the back of the van. Cobb and Volkov shared a tense handshake.

Arthur approached Volkov. The two looked at each other. It seemed to Ariadne there was some sort of silent communication going on; both looked intense and angry. Eventually the staring contest ended when Arthur flinched and turned away, climbing into the van next to Micah, with Cobb in the front.

Ariadne was last. She walked to Volkov and extended her hand without a word. After a brief handshake, she moved to let go, but Volkov only gripped her hand harder.

"Ms. Chopin, working with you has been a pleasure," he drawled. "Your creations are… magnificent. I wish to implore you to work with me anytime. You only have to find me."

Ariadne wrenched her hand away, disgusted. "I think it's safe to say, Mr. Volkov, that won't happen."

"Never say never."

She looked at him, really looked at him, taking in his aged skin and crooked smile. She reminded herself that this was the man who'd all but destroyed Arthur, who broke him, who stole his identity and then manipulated him into murdering his aunt. In a way, Volkov was responsible for her own shattered heart.

"We'll see," she said sharply. And then she turned, accepting Micah's hand and climbing into the van. The door slammed shut and they were on their way, leaving behind Volkov and the frozen tundra for what Ariadne hoped was forever.

It was only when she caught sight of Arthur's set face in the rearview mirror, that she noticed something alarming: Arthur had never once spoke to her by using the nickname he had given her, Ari.

**New chapter! And I feel so bad about the delay, but if you're reading this, you're still in, so here's some info about next chapter (which is being written quickly, I swear): It'll be called "Where Is My Mind?" from the Pixies song, feature Cobb's point of view, and include some speech straight from Arthur himself and a (big) revelation towards what exactly is going on in his head.**

**Review, please**


	11. Where Is My Mind?

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**So much gratitude to the reviewers who share their love- _Guest_: (no name, who are you?) thank you, thank you, thrilled to know you're still checking. _MajesticMoments_: "all's well that ends well," eh? nah the teasing is done on purpose. Eames' POV isn't until chapter 14, but we'll hear more from him before then... thanks for commenting! _Nina.4444_: took me ages to nail down that song, went through like five others before settling on this Carla Bruni gem. huge fan of that album (knew it before "500 Days of Summer", for the record) and also thought of using "Le toi du moi" but "Quelqu'un m'a dit" fit better. _Lazarus76_: compliments on technique?! doesn't get much better than that. x _theonlyredhead_: yay! what a joyous response. unfortunately, nothing is that easy... _In. Blue. 85_: glad to be back! and ecstatic to know you're still reading, thank you. _Yuumii_: hey! thanks for dropping a line, I don't think you have before. the Natasha comment is interesting... maybe we'll learn more about her later.**

**Chapter title from the (accurate) song by the Pixies.**

Where Is My Mind?

Sunday, May 19, 2013: Somewhere over the Atlantic: Cobb

Cobb was jolted awake by an unusually brutal bit of turbulence. Rubbing his sore neck, he squinted, glancing around the first class cabin.

Everyone else seemed to be asleep. Across the aisle, Ariadne had curled herself into a sort of ball-shape, her head pressed against the window, legs spread into the empty seat next to her. Micah's snores were audible from behind Cobb, intermingling with Eames'. Cobb twisted around and spotted the two passed out together, Micah's head pressed into Eames' shoulder. He smirked to himself, certain neither knew about it and decided to keep their intimate sleeping positions to himself.

Cobb glanced over the empty seat next to him. And then it hit him: Arthur was gone.

They'd flown out of Stockholm Arlanda Airport a couple hours previously, having had to run to make the connecting flight after arriving back in Moscow. Cobb was extremely impressed with how Arthur was doing. He'd navigated the airport with ease, allowing Cobb to lead him without comment. Upon discovery that the first class flight attendant was chatty, Cobb had panicked for a moment, convinced Arthur would do or say something that would set off alarm bells in the attendant's mind. But he'd been the exact opposite: polite, calm and reserved. Just like the Arthur that Cobb knew.

Cobb rose to his feet slowly, grabbing the headrest of the seat in front of him to balance himself as the plane bumped again. He slid out into the aisle and glanced around the spacious cabin. There was a handful of other first class passengers with them, but they all were accounted for, and all were sound asleep. Cobb ran a hand over his face warily; where could Arthur be?

He wandered to the front and checked the restrooms; both were unoccupied. He shuffled past the flight attendants' quarters, but Arthur was nowhere to be seen. He carefully pushed a thin curtain aside and was greeted with one bonus that he'd forgotten this particular plane had: a bar.

Bars on airplanes were pretty uncommon, and reserved exclusively for long trips (such as Stockholm to Chicago) and usually only for first class passengers. This bar was small and round, with a bartender organizing the newly washed glasses that had initially been given out after take-off. The stools around the bar were empty, save for one, where a thin man in jeans and a sweatshirt sat.

If he hadn't known Arthur for a decade, Cobb was certain he never would've recognized the man. In his casual attire, Arthur could've passed for a computer nerd, or a medical resident or someone who didn't care too much for always dressing to the nines. But the Arthur he knew was none of these things. He hadn't seen Arthur in a sweatshirt and jeans since the very early days of their work together.

He picked his way to Arthur's side and slid onto the stool next to him. Both Arthur and the bartender looked at him.

"Just coffee, for me, please," Cobb said quietly. The man nodded and walked away.

Arthur was idly swirling ice around his half-filled glass, and refusing to look at Cobb. Cobb awkwardly cleared his throat.

"What are you drinking?"

"Some ridiculous Swedish vodka," Arthur replied, sounding bored. "And some sort of wine cooler. I think."

Cobb frowned. "You think?"

"I've tired a few different things. I asked the bartender to surprise me."

"Oh." Cobb didn't know what to say next. The bartender returned with his coffee, along with a small container of cream and one of sugar. Cobb carefully mixed in the two with the coffee as the bartender asked Arthur if he wanted anything more. As soon as Arthur declined, he left again.

"Why are you awake?" Arthur asked.

Cobb shrugged. "I could ask you the same thing."

"You first."

"Turbulence," Cobb replied easily. "Got a nasty bump a while back. You didn't feel it?"

Arthur shrugged. Cobb wondered just how many drinks Arthur meant when he said "a few."

"Your turn," he said instead.

Arthur sighed, and lifted his hand as if to run it over his hair, but stopped short at feeling the thin fabric of the knitted tuque he wore instead. He lowered his hand slowly. "I can't sleep."

"Because of Volkov?"

Arthur's mouth set in a thin line. "I suppose he can be blamed for it."

Cobb sipped his coffee. Perfect. "Arthur-"

"Wait, Cobb," Arthur interrupted him, still speaking softly but with a new forceful tone. "Before you say anything, just... don't."

Cobb's eyebrows soared. "What?"

"I can see it in your eyes," Arthur said quietly. "The guilt. You feel guilty for what happened to me. You think you abandoned me, and let Volkov... get me. You think you need to apologize, and I want you to know right now, that I don't want your apology."

"And that's because..." Cobb dreaded the answer.

"It's because I won't blame you for this."

Now that was a response Cobb hadn't expected at all. "Why?"

"Volkov told you why he wanted me, what I did," Arthur explained. "You should realize that it was all _my _fault. I crossed him, I ruined him. He sought revenge on me, even if my most blatant offense was being Eli's son. If anything... I guess you could be blamed for instigating the chain of events that eventually put me in his reach. But you are not the reason why. He would've found me, in the end, no matter what." Arthur smiled wistfully. "I'm kind of relieved, in a way."

"Do explain how the hell you feel relieved."

"Because no one else was hurt," Arthur said. "I mean, when I was being... um, punished by him... I used to think about you and Pippa and James... He knew how close you were to me, how important your kids are to me, how much I love all of you... But he never went after you guys." Arthur grinned suddenly, causing Cobb to nearly drop his hot cup of coffee into his lap. "I'm so _happy_ about that."

Cobb was no longer certain that he was awake, that all of this was not some surreal dream. He fumbled for his pocket, procuring the familiar spinning top. He set it on the bar and together, he and Arthur watched it fall.

Cobb's breath came out in a whoosh. "So I'm awake."

"Disappointed?" Arthur looked amused, taking another swig of his vodka.

"Can you appreciate how bizarre this is?" Cobb asked. "I thought... After everything..." He groaned and rubbed furiously at his eyes. "God, Arthur. What the hell _happened_ to you?"

Arthur set the glass down. Cobb was stunned to see his hand was trembling. "Do you really want to know?" He asked.

"Yes," Cobb said without hesitation. "I need to know."

"It's not a pretty story..."

"I won't tell anyone," Cobb said. "Not even Ariadne. But she'll need to know soon."

He was surprised when Arthur merely shrugged. "I'm not worrying about her at this point." Cobb found that statement peculiar, but he restrained himself from responding to it; Arthur was about to explain himself.

"I don't remember much," Arthur whispered. "The first thing I remember is being brought back to life on an operating table. I was still in Los Angeles at this point. Volkov told me that he had his men waiting for the Browning job to be over in order to pick me up. Do you remember the men chasing us from that conference room?"

Cobb nodded tightly. He remembered sprinting with Yusuf, fighting their way for the exit as a horde of men shot at them from behind...

"Most of them were Volkov's," Arthur continued. "They went after me when I was pushed down the elevator shaft. They took me out of there. They brought me back to life when I flat-lined. They took the bullets out; badly, but they did it.

"I was smuggled out of America and transported to that godforsaken middle of nowhere _nothing_ in Russia. It took weeks before I came out of the coma I'd fallen into due to the surgeries. Eventually Volkov was able to explain where I was, what had happened to me, and what would happen next. To put it simply: he mentally tortured me."

Cobb considered this. "Mentally."

Arthur nodded gravely. "Volkov... Understands how the brain works. He could make me experience pain without actually hurting my body. He... Well, I don't know _how_ he did it. But he made me re-live certain bad experiences. I died a million different times. But it wasn't like dream dying. Volkov made it... very real. And I have all the memories to prove it."

Cobb inhaled sharply. He'd had a few real life near-death experiences, and he wasn't keen on reliving any of them. "So you're not sleeping..."

"Have you ever seen "A Nightmare on Elm Street"?"

Cobb stared. "Sure. When I was a teenager."

"Yeah, well, it's like that," Arthur said softly. "I go to sleep, I die. Volkov has somehow... downloaded, for lack of a better term, a hundred different ways for me to die in my mind. Whenever I fall asleep, I experience one of them. Then I wake up. And it repeats."

All the blood drained from Cobb's face. "Dear God, Arthur."

"I have to sleep eventually," Arthur continued. "I haven't hallucinated yet, but I can feel my mind slowing down. I'll begin to lose my short-term memory, my ability to drive, my logical reasoning... eventually maybe my ability to speak well. I can already feel the physical symptoms. Tremors-" He lifted his shaking hand to demonstrate "-I'm cold all the fucking time, I have the headache from hell, I've got enormous circles under my eyes and I'll soon become irritable-"

Cobb smiled shakily. "Soon?"

Arthur scowled. "You get the point."

"How can we cure this?"

"I don't know," Arthur said softly. "Like I said: I have no idea how Volkov managed to do this to me. But... I can't..." He sighed. "Cobb. I won't be able to live like this for much longer."

A chill went down Cobb's spine. "What?"

"I'm dying," Arthur said. "Very slowly, but very surely. People aren't built to go without sleep like this forever. And to top it off; well, you won't be surprised to learn I'm depressed."

"We can get you medicine for that," Cobb said quickly.

"What's the point?" Arthur's voice had risen. "I can't keep dying every time I close my eyes. I'm living in fucking _hell_. And there isn't even anything for me to live for-"

"What are you talking about?" Cobb demanded, suddenly furious. "I can think of one huge detail you can live for; Ariadne! Arthur, I don't think you realize what she's been going through. She was devastated when she thought you were dead, completely heart broken. She loves you more than anything, Arthur, still. You mean the universe to her."

Arthur was very quiet for a long moment. "I have to tell you something, Cobb. But I don't want you to tell the others, not until I've come up with a good way to."

Cobb frowned. "All right."

"Have you noticed that I'm behaving... differently, around Micah and Ariadne?"

Cobb reflected on the past few days. How Arthur largely ignored Micah, only pausing to speak with him if necessary, how he avoided being alone with Ariadne, how he hadn't touched her once, how he barely regarded her. "Yeah?"

"Volkov worked on my memory," Arthur said. "It's like he took a knife to it and cut out the parts he wanted to. I remember meeting Micah, I remember researching him, and I remember killing him in a dream and almost drowning him in real life."

Cobb felt very cold all of a sudden...

"I remember meeting Ariadne in the warehouse in Paris. I remember working with her on the dream. I remember setting the charges with her in the hotel. But I don't remember anything I _felt_. I've been told that I fell in love with her, that I retired _for her_, that I gave up my life _for her_. But I have no memories or feelings to connect with these experiences. When she walked in that room for the first time since we last saw each other, you know what I felt?"_  
_

"What?" Cobb croaked.

"Indifference," Arthur murmured. "She means nothing to me. And Volkov... Well. I don't know if it's true but he claimed that he's 'fixed me' so I can't ever get close to her again. Like he's re-wired my brain to reject her and everything about her. And, shit, I think it's working. Because the more time I spend with her, the sicker I feel. She's poisoning me just by looking at me."

Cobb's throat was very dry. "This is going to crush her..."

"And that's Volkov's final revenge," Arthur said quietly. "Not only will he have killed me-slowly, painfully, and a million different times- but he'll have destroyed the person I loved the very most."

**Review, please**

**The whole "sneak peak" of last chapter seems to have been received enthusiastically, and it's kinda fun for me (jogging ideas, what readers think most interesting) so here: next chapter is Micah's POV, the chapter title comes from my favorite Beatles song from the White album (disc 1), Miles, James and Philippa return, and we also hear, for the first time, from a character who was talked about in "To Lose My Life" but never made an actual appearance. guesses?**


	12. I'm So Tired

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers are the bombdiggity (and yes, I've never used that adjective before in my life!)****_- Nina.4444_****: yay! thrilled with how much you like it. I thought it seemed like a bit too dramatic, but it seems to work for you. ****_Yuumii_****: here's some Micah thoughts for you... and well done on picking up that Arthur is behaving normally around Cobb and Eames. that'll be cleared up soon. ****_Laura-xx_****: thank you! the whole different POV thing happened accidentally the first time around, but I like it, it's a challenge. ****_Mae_****: HELLO MAE! I assume you meant Arthur and Ariadne in the second sentence ;) thanks for introducing yourself. ****_danastarry_****: no-win indeed. but like that'll stop anyone from trying to help... ****_In. Blue. 85_****: oooh suspected it? what exactly? ****_knuckiducki_****: wait what Paris. that movie is actually the worst, even the recent remake freaked me out and I KNEW what was going to happen. interesting theories...****_theonlyredhead_****: hi! thanx. new profile pic? nice!**

**I always (creepily) stalk all my reviewers and y'all are fabbbbbulous. (This is not just the flu talking either.) but seriously. I don't have many friends in "real life" so I get emotional when I see that people care.**

**I was watching "Paranormal Activity" the other day and it struck me that there are other ways to pronounce Micah. In that movie, it was pronounced MEE-kah. I've always thought of my Micah's name as MY-cah. Like Michael. Just to clarify things...**

**chapter title from one of my top Beatles songs.**

I'm So Tired

Monday, May 20, 2013: Chicago, Illinois: The Cobb House: Micah

_"Good morning sunshine, be with me all day, Just don't let the rain pass you by, When it's cloudy and windy, and the snowflakes arrive, you somehow just make me, make me feel I'm alive..._"

It took Micah a moment to realize he was not in fact hallucinating, but that Edward Eames was really singing a song from the late '90s to him.

He opened his eyes slowly, uncertain as to what he was about to see. Eames was perched in the first class seat next to him, his nose stuck in the opened Sports section of yesterday's New York Times. He was still singing softly, holding a cup of coffee in front of him. His eyes abruptly swiveled to Micah, and he stopped singing.

"Why hello, precious."

"Are you seriously singing an Aqua song right now?" Micah demanded.

Eames smirked. "I seriously am. You've been out like a light for the past few hours, and we're about to touch down in Chicago. I thought my lovely dulcet tones would make a far better wake-up call than Cobb's unamused announcement."

Micah rubbed his eyes. He felt stiff and achy all over, and his neck had an unfortunate kink from the way he'd slept on it. Eames poked his arm.

"Coffee?"

Half an hour later, Micah was feeling much more alert, a fresh cup of Starbucks clenched in his fist, his suitcase and backpack next to him. The entire group was gathered in front of Chicago O'Hare International Airport, waiting for a taxi to pick them up. As Micah surveyed his companions, he couldn't help but feel that he was the only refreshed one. Eames was working on his third plastic cup of Earl Grey tea, leaning against a cement pillar and scrolling through the latest headlines on his phone. Next to him, Cobb's eyes were flickering from car to car, his arm rising every now and then in an attempt to get a taxi's attention. His other arm was holding the handle of his suitcase with surprising force; his knuckles were white.

And then there was Arthur, looking bored and... _awful_. Micah had never seen him look so exhausted. His posture was awful, his eyes dull, their normally bright brown overwhelmed by the alarming black bags that dominated most of his face. His arms were wrapped tightly around himself, and his right leg was jittery, bouncing up and down like there was no tomorrow.

Beside him, Ariadne was unashamedly staring at him. She'd lazily hung her orange scarf around her neck, her brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail. As Micah watched, her mouth opened and closed at least seven times, like she was going to say something and then immediately thought better of it. Having been exposed to leader/determined Ariadne in the past week, Micah didn't like indecisive Ariadne. It was almost as disconcerting as sweatshirt-wearing, bored-looking, Micah-killing Arthur.

A taxi sedan pulled up and everyone automatically looked at Cobb.

His mouth slid into a tight line. "I'll go first to unlock the gate. Ariadne, will you come with me?"

Ariadne stared at him, obviously surprised that he'd picked her to accompany him in the taxi. Micah was confused too, until he realized that Cobb was probably worried about having a slightly-mad Arthur in close proximity with Ariadne, someone he could easily crush if he decided to. He found Cobb's protecting of Ariadne sweet, until it hit him that Cobb was less concerned over losing Micah himself.

_Now that I think about it, Ariadne probably has a better chance of fighting off Arthur than I do_, Micah thought.

Cobb and Ariadne disappeared into the taxi, leaving Micah standing in front of International Arrivals with Eames and Arthur.

Eames turned to Arthur. "Just like old times, eh?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I don't recall being stuck at O'Hare with you, Mr. Eames."

_Mr. Eames?_ Micah wanted to join the conversation. "You guys have been in Chicago together before?"

"Oh yes," Eames said heartily. "Dear Arthur and I had _quite_ the _holiday_, if you know what I mean-"

Arthur practically growled. "Be serious for once in your life."

"I am," Eames replied. He looked at Micah. "I believe the last time Arthur and I were in Chicago together was when we were both tasked with working on a job with Cobb and Mal."

Micah had heard of Cobb's mysterious late wife, but knew pretty much nothing about her, not even what she'd looked like. From what he'd gathered from Arthur and Ariadne though, painted a picture of a beautiful and intelligent woman with a tragic love story ending.

"How'd it go?" He asked, instead of commenting on Mal.

"With the fantastic four?" Eames chuckled. "Splendidly."

"Hardly," Arthur snapped. He looked at Micah. "You might not know this, but Mr. Eames is not the most reliable person in the world. He flubbed the forge-"

"Pardon-I did _what?_ I _flubbed?_"

"Eames, the man had a hook-nose and you had your ridiculous flat one there-"

Eames waved his hand impatiently. "Pause and rewind, pause and rewind. What verb did you just use? _Flubbed?_ What kind of uncouth, flaky language is that coming from Arthur Zaleski? Did our cheeky friend also have fun with the Wernicke's area in your brain, darling?"

Micah had been laughing at the exchange, thrilled at their rubbing banter, but found his laugh dying off at the way Arthur abruptly straightened, his expression tense.

"You still call me that?"

Eames studied him. "What?"

"Darling."

"Of course," Eames said. "I think of us as something like bosom buddies, nowadays." He paused and added, "I expect you've devoted most of your attention to worrying over how poor Ariadne and Cobb have been dealing with your absence, but I'll have you know that I've missed you as well, Arthur."

Arthur gawked at him. "Why? It's not like you care about me. We're just acquaintances."

Micah's jaw dropped. He looked to Eames for an explanation, but found the forger merely frowning, rubbing his chin with his hand in thought. Just then, Arthur lifted his arm and a taxi screeched to a stop in front of them.

Eames finally came back to the present. "We'll see," he muttered, and Micah wasn't sure that anyone was meant to hear the comment.

The drive to Cobb's home was quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts. Micah was considering Arthur's comments. Did he, somehow, not remember the deep bond he and Eames had forged in their mutual determination to see Ariadne survive? Did he not remember telling Eames about his past, how guilty Eames felt about everything he'd done to wrong Arthur?

_And what about me?_

Arthur was behaving towards Micah like he had when they'd met for the very first time, at Harvard. Micah remembered his initial impression of Arthur, when the point man walked into the classroom he'd been studying in with his friends, Isaac Bristol at his side. Tall, professional, serious, composed. Micah remembered feeling exposed, awkward, self-conscious; Micah had already felt like he was being tested and appraised before he knew why Arthur and Cobb were there.

And then of course, there was the job... The job, where Arthur became his mentor, his boss, his almost-murderer, his co-worker, his best friend, and on some level, his brother. Micah had a real life brother, but they'd never seen eye to eye like he felt he and Arthur had. And they'd certainly never surfed in California together.

Micah snapped out of his flustered thoughts when the taxi jerked to a stop in front of Cobb's gate. Eames spoke quickly and they were heading up the long drive, approaching the gray brick house. Waiting on the porch were Ariadne, Cobb, Miles and even Philippa and James.

The children immediately raced down the porch the moment the taxi jumped, impatiently hovering around it as Micah gathered up some American money to pay the driver and Eames climbed out, stepping back to help Arthur, who seemed like he could barely get out himself. Micah followed behind, watching as James and Philippa screamed "ARTHUR!" and tackled him.

Arthur was smiling, _actually smiling_, as he slid to his knees, the children hanging off him. On the porch, Miles was beaming, and Cobb wore a hard smile. Ariadne's hands were clasped together in anxiety, but the moment she caught sight of Arthur's expression, the tension in her shoulders seemed to melt away.

Micah couldn't imagine what Cobb had possibly told his children to explain Arthur's reincarnation. But watching the way the children clung to him, the way Arthur held them tightly, love on his face, made him wonder if all that really mattered was that he was here, now.

"I missed you too," Arthur was saying to the children.

"Are you really back?" Philippa demanded, sounding skeptical. "Like back for _real?_"

Arthur smirked, running his hand through her thick blonde hair. "As opposed to what- imaginary, Pippa? Am I some sort of ghost or monster?"

"You're not a ghost, Uncle Arthur," James said, aghast. "I can't see through you."

"Very astute, James," Arthur said warmly.

But Philippa was less convinced. "You could be a ghost. I heard dad say you were haunting him."

Arthur's gaze snapped to Cobb, who was frowning. He beckoned to his children. "Let's go inside, kids."

Once in the house, Miles wasted no time in approaching Arthur, embracing him. "It's very good to see you again, Arthur."

Arthur looked surprised at the display of affection. "It's always a pleasure, Professor."

Miles' expression fell somewhat. He glanced at Cobb, whose nose twitched, but gave no response. Miles turned back to Arthur. "It's Stephen now, please."

"Sure," Arthur said. But Micah could tell he looked uncomfortable with the familiarity.

As Cobb began to heard everyone to the living room, and Miles spoke to Eames about putting on a pot of tea, Micah heard his phone ring. He excused himself and hurriedly went into the dining room, worried that he'd messed up something with his internship. But someone else was listed on the called ID: Bethany Harper.

Incredulous, Micah answered. "_Bethie?_"

"Hey Micah!" His sister sounded as she always did: cheerful, bubbly, bright. In the background, he could hear warm classical piano. He ran through the dates in his mind and realized she'd be getting out of Juilliard soon.

"What... What's up?" He asked.

"I just talked to mom and she told me you're going to be in New York this summer!" Bethany answered, her enthusiasm seemingly endless. "Doing some fancy-pants internship. Well, I'm going be there too- I'm teaching ballet at a Boys and Girls Club in Brooklyn."

Micah's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, wow. Wow, Bethie, that's great."

"Oh, God, _Bethie_. You still calling me that?"

As a matter of fact, it'd been Bethany herself who coined the nickname. She'd had a difficult time figuring out all the syllables as a baby, and the result was a mangled mess that sounded sort of like 'Bethie.' Her brothers had wasted no time in latching on to it.

"Well, sure," Micah said. "You're still my little sister, even if you're, you know, being a teacher."

"I guess." She didn't sound convinced. "So, when are you getting here?"

Micah's smile fell. _Uh oh_. "Um, I'm not sure..."

"Why?"

_Because my best friend is kind of insane right now?_ "I'm in Chicago actually... seeing a friend."

"Chicago, really? How neat!"

"Yeah, it's a ball," Micah muttered. _I just got back from Spain and Russia!_ "How about I call you in a couple days, to touch base?"

She laughed. "Busy Dr. Micah. That sounds fine. I can't wait to see you, I miss you a lot."

"Yeah, me too," Micah muttered. He really meant it; just hearing his sister's voice made him realize how long it'd been since he'd spent quality time with his family.

And, of course, how many secrets he had from them now.

When Micah had told them he'd been selected for a cutting edge research project in California, his entire family had freaked out, ecstatic and proud of his accomplishments. They'd accepted his half-assed attempts at explanation, their eyes stunned at the numbers in his bank account. And when Micah had fallen into a depression after the conclusion of the job, they'd thought he missed California. They didn't know, and never would know, what had happened to him out there. Or why he was in Chicago now.

He hung up with Bethany and returned to the living room, determined to focus on anything but his family.

Arthur, as the guest of honor, was seated in the middle of the couch. James was kneeling next to him, doodling on Arthur's left hand, while Cobb looked on, a touch of sadness on his features. Micah wondered if Arthur's condition was beginning to get to him. On Arthur's other side was Ariadne, her chin on her hand, eyes locked on Arthur and James. Miles and Eames leaned against the bookcase.

"-new job, opening up in New York, of all places," Miles was saying. "Sounds very low-key, from the looks of things."

"Who's doing it?" Eames asked.

"An old student of mine. But unlike some of them-" he eyed Cobb "-this job is very much legal."

"Who are they looking for?" Arthur wondered, without looking up from the railroad James was drawing over his palm.

Miles shrugged. "I don't think they're aiming for specific positions. More like bodies. Anyway, all of you are much too expensive for them."

Philippa suddenly bounded into the room, making a beeline for Arthur. She jumped onto his lap with surprising grace.

"I made this after I met Ariadne," Philippa said, hiding the paper she carried against her chest. Ariadne sat up, intrigued. "For me. But now that you're back, I think you should have it, because I gave her one of you." And with that, she presented the paper to Arthur.

Micah leaned forward. It was an incredible likeness of Ariadne, with perfect details: bitten nails, unruly curls, thin lace scarf, stray freckles and all. It was only her face, from what Micah imagined had been Philippa's vantage point the first time they met.

Arthur stared at the drawing in silence for a long moment. When he lifted his head, his eyes sought Ariadne's, and they connected, for the first time since Volkov's warehouse, when Arthur begged her to kill him. Her face was all wide eyes and hesitancy, and in his... He was grimacing, but Micah could spot the trace of emotion that tugged at the bags under his auburn eyes. He looked... _touched_.

"Thank you, Pippa," Arthur murmured. "This is lovely."

Philippa nodded. "I couldn't remember some parts of her face, so I kinda used my drawings of _Maman_ as a guide."

Arthur looked thoughtful. "Your mother and Ariadne are both very beautiful."

Ariadne stiffened, and Arthur looked over at her again. Her jaw was tight, and hands clenched into fists. But Micah, and he was sure everyone else, saw the moisture in her eyes.

A shrill whistle broke the silence.

"That'll be the tea," Miles said.

**review, please**

**NEXT CHAPTER INFO: this one will be very different. it'll be all Arthur, in the second person and it'll be a bit of a mini-biography of him that'll really open up how he sees the world and where he is presently, set to a Radiohead song. it started up as a fun little mini writing exercise for me, but I like it, so I think I'll post it.**


	13. How To Disappear Completely

******Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

******Thank you, thank you, reviewers- _Lauraa-x_: remember: Miles brought up the job, and he doesn't know that anything serious is wrong with Arthur. and I had fun writing Eames + Arthur's conversation :) _Yuumii_: yay! lovin the enthusiasm _in. blue. 85_: I'm a big Radiohead fan! adore them. lots of Arthur ahead... _jgutts98_: hi! thanks for dropping a line. I am overwhelmed at the notion that Micah is your favorite character. talk about a compliment! answer to your question below...**

******AUTHOR'S NOTE: jgutts98 asked who I would pick to play Micah/who I think best resembles the Micah in my head. Well I love any excuse to hang out on IMDB, and after careful thought and consideration, I'd say a red-haired, glasses-wearing Anton Yelchin. (Guys I really liked "Charlie Bartlett.")**

**Chapter title from the mesmerizing song by Radiohead. LOOK AT THIS MONSTER. THIS IS A LONG FRIGGING CHAPTER.**

How To Disappear Completely

This is the story of Arthur Beckett Zaleski.

Your first memory is of your reflection; it's your twin brother, Adam. You used to lay side by side with him in a cot, when your parents were poor young adults, living paycheck to paycheck. You and Adam were inseparable. You and Adam were identical in every single way. Sometimes, you'd even forget that Adam was not you, like when Adam stained his mouth with a cherry popsicle and you furiously rubbed your own lips raw to get rid of the stain that did not exist on you. Mirrors were always startling, because they made your face look backwards.

Your memories then separate into two different people- your parents: Ilia and Evangeline.

To you, Ilia is the epitome of perfection. He is tall, pressed, neat, organized. You wait by the door for him to come home from his lab in the evening, a biologist who wears crisp suits and ties under his white coat. When he enters, you run around spastically, Adam at your side, the pair of you behaving like yapping dogs. Ilia is patient. He pats your head and says, in his thick Russian accent, "Good evening, my little prince." You hug his waist; he smells like bleach and aftershave and his shoes are as shiny as a star at night.

Evangeline (though your father is the only person who calls her that; to everyone else, she is Eva) is the epitome of grace. With curly brown hair and emerald green eyes, Evangeline always causes men to give her a double-take, even when you're with her as you walk down the street to the grocery store. To you, having men stumble over their sentences and going out of their way to open doors is normal for women. Evangeline is lovely and compassionate, and gives you spare change to hand to homeless men on the streets, and helps you reach the counter to help her prepare dinner for the family.

The first six years of your life are wonderful. You grow up in Oceanside, California, a small town just outside of Los Angeles. You go fishing with your father, you pick blackberries with your mother, play soccer and basketball with your brother. You learn Russian alongside English, and impress schoolmates with your bilingualism and the swear words your father made you promise to never say in front of your mother. Your teachers love you and your brother; you and Adam will both skip kindergarten and fifth grade. You're an excellent student, reading Shakespeare and explaining Aristotle to kids twice your age. Both of your parents were academics, and you strive to follow in their footsteps.

You tell your father you want to be like him when you grow up. You don't understand his sad smile when he says he hopes you have a better life.

Just after your seventh birthday, your father is assigned to a six-month stint for the U.S. government in Moscow. To you, this is nothing to be concerned about, and you eagerly receive the packages with his postcards, chocolates and toys that come in the mail. The summer of your seventh year is filled with Adam and friends, showing off the Russian trinkets, and so you barely notice the way your mother has paled and thinned.

In August, you join Evangeline and Adam on a two-week trip to Moscow to visit your father, right before the school year begins. You've never been to Russia before, and the first ten days of the trip are incredible. You pass as a native, your Russian and accent flawless. Even your mother, who was born and raised in California, does not stick out. You play in the streets with the local children, visit the museums and monuments with your whole family. And with your family together, everything feels normal again. Your mother smiles more, and your father is just happy to see you all.

One day, Evangeline and Adam go to the market to buy food for dinner. You remain at the flat with Ilia. The two of you are playing a board game, and Ilia has won five times in a row. Frustrated, you're about to stomp off to your room when Ilia holds his fist out to you. You hold your hand out and he opens his fist above it; a red die falls into your palm.

"Do not despair, my little prince," Ilia says to you in his silky Russian. His dark brown eyes, the same as yours, twinkle. "Remember: little thieves are hanged..."

"But great ones escape," you say, finishing his common mantra. You roll the die; four. You roll it again; four. And again. Four. And again.

Four.

Ilia laughs at the stupefaction on your face. He pats your head and shuffles into the kitchen for tea when something huge slams against the door. You look up, laughing, and are about to make a joke about Adam when you see the way Ilia has stiffened, how his face wears an expression you've never seen on him before: fear.

"Arthur," he says. "Go under the table."

"Papa-"

"Arthur! Now, and not another word until I tell you to come out!"

You dive under the table, recognizing his stern tone. Your Converse-sneaker clad foot barely disappears under the tablecloth when the door smashes open. You can see only an inch of space, and watch as three pairs of thick boots step into the flat. Your father's shiny black shoes step directly in front of you. They begin to speak, hissing and spitting, angry Russian, so fast you can't really keep up. You peek out from under the table in time to see one of the masked men raise a gun at your father.

And then there's a loud bang and your father falls.

He lands hard in front of you, his body twitching. He's gasping like he's run a mile flat; you've never heard him sound like this. The door closes behind the men and you realize Ilia is speaking.

"Arthur... Arthur..."

You crawl out from under the table, the tablecloth hanging over your head like a blanket. Ilia is flat on his back. There is a strange stain creeping over his immaculate suit. It's red, like the die he just gave you.

His hand is grasping at you, the hand that gave you the die, and you take it in yours. His grip is unusually tight, and his almond-shaped eyes are fierce. You know he is trying to speak, but the red liquid is slipping from his tongue and falling to the hardwood floor.

"Papa?" You say.

"Arth..." His voice trails off. He grows very still, his grip slackens. His eyes are empty.

You remain on the floor, one hand clutching Ilia's, the other still holding that red die, until Evangeline and Adam return. The panic sets in, and the next few weeks are a blur of men in suits, army uniforms, strangers. You leave Russia with no desire to ever return, and in the dark of night, while Adam sleeps in the bed next to yours, you vow that you will avenge your father one day.

Back home, your nights are plagued by terrors and nightmares, dreams where you re-watch your father's murder again and again. Evangeline is in pieces, heartbroken and stumbling through what remains of your father's legacy in the military; therefore, she is all but deaf to your complaints. You and Adam are just as close, but he doesn't know what to do for you, either. So while Adam goes to baseball practice, you go to the library. You spend the immediate weeks following your father's murder trying to diagnose and cure your own night terrors.

One day, taking the bus home from the library, a man sits beside you. His hair is white, face lined, glasses thick-framed and dark. He wears a full suit, a small pocket square sticking out of the breast pocket. He holds out his hand and introduces himself.

"Hello, Arthur. My name is Monty Eliot. I was a friend of your father's."

Eliot worked in the military with Ilia, though his history was more colorful. Eliot fought in World War II as a young man, then Korea, before being promoted out of active duty. When you meet him, he is newly retired, though he often shows up on army bases, teaching new recruits. Eliot and Ilia enjoyed hearing the other's stories, and often would go out for a drink together. Eliot knew Ilia went to Moscow, and also knew he'd died there. And when he read the report, he learned that one of Ilia's beloved sons, the boys he never stopped praising and talking about to Eliot, had witnessed the murder.

You find yourself meeting Eliot on a bi-weekly basis, in the library, the coffee shop, parks, the beach and all around Oceanside. He reads psychology books with you at first, listening proudly when you tell him you no longer experience the night terrors. Eliot teaches you how to fight, on a basketball court, when the two of you visit the local YMCA and shoot some hoops. He also takes you to a shooting range, where you learn the ins and outs of guns and revolvers and rifles.

Everywhere you go, Eliot introduces you as his son. You never bother to correct him. It isn't that you are no longer Ilia's son; it's more that you crave Eliot's love and adoration more than anything.

It is slow at first, but by the time you enter middle school, you realize that you have separated yourself from Evangeline and Adam. You have a new set of friends, a new set of hobbies, a new parental role model. Adam becomes your opposite, where he was once your identical twin. Your hairstyles change; you spend your time outside of school in different parts of town. People once commented that you and Adam were practically the same person, always able to finish the other's sentence, almost reading the other's thoughts. Now, you laugh sourly when people joke about how you and Adam are only similar in surname and facial features.

Evangeline loves you, you know this, but she's changed since Ilia's death. She's needy and smothering, worrying over your and Adam's safety. She sets a curfew you shun; you ignore her whimpering fury when you break a rule. Before too long, you only come home for sleep, desperate to avoid her hovering presence. This creates more of a rift between you and Adam, for Adam believes you have abandoned them.

One thing that remains the same for you and Adam is your incredible intelligence. You both graduate high school at sixteen, bound for Ivy League schools. Adam packs up for Stanford, just far enough away to enable a true college experience, while also allowing him to come home should Evangeline need him.

Meanwhile, you are sworn in as a soldier in the U.S. Army, Eliot at your side, beaming, epitomizing a proud father. He hugs you tightly after the ceremony, promises to write to you, visit you. He tells you that he loves you and he knows you'll make him proud. And then you leave for Harvard, your top choice, the best school, for a unique college experience, thanks to Eliot. His training of you has paid off, and you are determined to do him proud.

You are the youngest member of the incoming class, but this doesn't scare you. Eliot has taught you how to destroy your fear, and after watching your father die, you believe nothing can stop you. The shared dreaming program is fascinating to you, and you jump in enthusiastically. Your knowledge of psychology and dreams (because you studied them when you were seven, trying to rid yourself of your night terrors) is unparalleled and you become the top student in the program. Isaac Bristol, your academic advisor and head of Harvard's dream sharing program, is intrigued by you and unashamedly treats you as his favorite student. You like Bristol; with his neat suits and charming smile, he reminds you of Ilia. You often travel with Bristol to countries like Japan and Singapore, helping him run cutting edge research projects, rather than going back to California for the summer or winter break. The amount of postcards you send to Evangeline and Adam could paper walls.

For your junior year, you elect to study abroad in Paris for the fall semester, in order to test your knowledge of the language you've studied for years (along with, at Eliot's order, Arabic). It's your first trip to France, and you fall in love with the country immediately. It isn't long before you become an expatriate of sorts, blending in with aplomb. You're still a teenager, just eighteen years old, but you spend your time outside of class hanging out in pubs, drinking with the blue collar workers and dancing with the French women you basically worship.

You're studying Psychology at Paris Descartes University, one of Europe's most prestigious research universities, and you are finding yourself actually challenged for the first time in years. You find yourself occasionally having to ask the graduate students who assist the professors in your classes for advice, and this is how you meet Mallorie Miles.

Mallorie, or Mal, as she introduces herself, is helping to teach one of your lucid dreaming classes, and you're automatically impressed at her substantial knowledge of dreaming that way. She's several years older than you, all dark curls, huge brown eyes, thin waist, long legs. You develop a crush on her instantly-aside from being remarkably intelligent, she's drop dead gorgeous, and you are human, after all- but you know she's got a boyfriend named Dom, and anyway, she sees you as a sort of little brother, and truthfully, you aren't even too bothered by this. Mal is fascinated by you, with your age, your accomplishments, your goals, and the two of you often hang out together outside of class, going to the cinema or out for a nice dinner and you even go dancing once, where Mal ends up acting as a wingman of sorts, and you end up with a French girlfriend named Sabine.

It's almost the end of the semester when Mal announces her boyfriend is finally coming to see her. She hasn't talked about him much, but you've gathered that he's some sort of architect who went to the _École des Beaux-Arts_ in Paris,where he studied under Mal's father, Stephen Miles, and he met Mal when she dropped by to visit her father at work. You know he's American, like you, but that he's been in Ireland for the past few months working on a job.

You follow Mal to the college, and while she chats with a friend in the hall, you wander into her father's classroom. He's hunched over his desk, puzzling over thick sheets of paper, and you silently stand next to him, studying with him. He's designed a layout for a dream, that much is clear; the house is massive and elaborate, but you're not sure what the problem is.

"Nice house," you tell him.

He glances up, takes in the sight of you- skinny, thick coat, messenger bag-and returns to his drawings, shuffling the papers a little awkwardly. "Thank you." He's trying to hide them from you.

You decide to alleviate the tension. "Who's it for?"

Miles frowns, eyeing you carefully. "Er... an acquaintance." He avoids your eyes, and you realize that the job he's designing this for is probably illegal. Luckily for you, Eliot has enlightened you on many of the cons who run lucid dreaming jobs, and you appraise the layout once more.

You touch the drawing. "Shaw, right?"

"I beg your pardon?" Miles is stunned, and you know you're correct. You allow yourself a single moment of self-congratulation. You turn back to the drawings.

"This has Shaw all over it," you say. "The brick outerface… Harder for bullets to penetrate. Narrow doorways; Shaw's a little guy, he can move quickly where most men falter. Not to mention how utterly ostentatious and unnecessary so many of these details are; what's he going to do with that chandelier? Hang himself from it to wake up? Not likely, especially not with all his other options." Miles is breathless, but you ignore that, continuing with "Balconies; easy for jumping. Doors leading to nowhere; simple drop offs. Those banisters look like harpoons; I suppose they're easier to move than they appear to be. One could easily stab oneself without much issue. But Shaw always goes the dramatic route; where's the gun closet?"

Miles draws a breath, and gestures at what appear to be kitchen cabinets. "He can hide them in there."

"Very good," you say, nodding. "You were staring at this drawing for at least five minutes, since I first walked in here. What seems to be the problem, professor?"

Miles is more confused than ever, but has figured you might actually know what you're talking about, and maybe you'll be able to help him out. "In the event that death is… Not desired, Mr. Shaw has requested an escape route from every room, on every floor. My problem is the living room. He could always go out a window, or door, but…"

"Too easy," you agree. "Projections will be on his tail." You study the drawings for a moment more.

"How about a trapdoor?"

Miles stares, so you continue. "Under the carpet. Shaw pulls up a trapdoor, slides through, closes it on his way down. Build a tunnel snaking back outside. The projections will be too focused on finding a way after Shaw through the trapdoor that they won't be looking for him outside. He can run from that, no problem."

"Ah." Miles' throat is dry. "Well. That is certainly an idea."

"Free of charge," you murmur, and Miles' catches the first hint of a sense of humor in the way your face has wrinkled. "These are excellent blueprints, Professor Miles. Shaw doesn't deserve them."

"Excuse me," Miles says, tired of the games. "But who are you?"

You really smile now, and hold out your hand. "My name is Arthur Zaleski, professor. I'm an undergraduate from Harvard at Paris Descartes, studying Psychology. Mal is helping to teach one of my classes."

Miles accepts your hand. "Well. From the looks of things, there isn't much left the university can teach you."

After Miles, you finally meet Dominic Cobb, and it quickly becomes apparent that Cobb is a new player in illegal shared dreaming heists. But with his gray suit, disorderly blond hair, strong shoulders and electric blue eyes, Cobb carries a sense of superiority that overcomes his youth. The two of you hit it off right away, and you're very aware of how astonished he is over your vast knowledge of dreaming. It is at dinner when you finally reveal that you've been trained in shooting and killing that Mal first floats the idea that the three of you should become a team.

Cobb latches on to the idea, but you politely decline, using the excuse of your education as an explanation for why you can't be involved. In reality, you're rather interested in working with this talented couple; but you know your commitments to Eliot and the United States will trump that desire. Mal and Cobb refuse to let go of the idea, and when they drive you to the airport on your last day in Paris, Cobb gives you a list of phone numbers and emails, telling you to never hesitate to contact him should you change your mind. Mal begs you to visit, and you vaguely promise that you will.

Towards the end of the school year, Eliot visits you at Harvard, and it is there that he tells you that you've been chosen to go to Afghanistan for something akin to a practice run as a soldier. It will take place in the summer, just past your nineteenth birthday. You're thrilled, determined to do him proud.

After school gets out, you make time for a trip back to California, to spend a couple weeks in Oceanside with your mother and brother. They're both joyous at seeing you-you ended up spending Christmas in Paris with Mal and Cobb-and you find yourself being equally happy. You hadn't realized just how much you missed them. You and Adam spend time with all your old high school friends, and for a brief time at least, you feel like any other teenager. That is, until you finally get around to telling Adam and Evangeline that you're leaving for Afghanistan. They both fuss, on different sides: Evangeline is terror, and Adam is fury. Evangeline is convinced you'll get yourself killed, no matter your training and skill. Adam believes that you are only trying to abandon Evangeline again, which leads to a huge fight between the two of you, like you've never had before; he hits you and you hit him right back. You finally realize how heartbroken and lonely Adam is without you, and Adam finally realizes that you've never really recovered from watching your father's murder. But these epiphanies are not enough to mend the damage; something has broken between you both, and you're not sorry to leave Adam.

Eliot flies with you to Afghanistan. The country is experiencing a civil war; the Taliban took over the capital almost three years previously, and things have deteriorated since. Though there is much resistance, the group, leading as the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, is getting support from Pakistan and the United Arab Emirates, and the United States is concerned with the increasing international recognition; Afghanistan is now considered to be a top terrorist threat. The national currency is in a free fall, and poverty and disease are becoming more and more widespread, with a May earthquake only worsening matters. As summer begins, the country moves into a severe drought, as Kabul is rocked by bombs.

But, Eliot reiterates, you aren't there for any of that. While you scout out the landscape for future dream-sharing projects, you're leading a training exercise, making yourself useful to the military, as they're funding your education. The guys you're working with are all older than you, save for Jonah Mellark, a recent recruit from Los Angeles. With his All-American looks and cheery attitude, Jonah is popular and well-liked among the team. But he latches on to you, hounding you out and jumping at every opportunity to talk with you. Unlike the others, he doesn't find you intimidating, and rather than being annoyed by this, you find yourself actually liking the camaraderie. Jonah reminds you a bit of Adam, who's still back home in California. You miss your twin, and you want to apologize, but there's nothing that can be done from 7500 miles away.

One day in July, during the middle of a routine patrol through the desert, your team is ambushed. With bullets coming from both sides, you're the last one back to the truck, and you know either you're all going to be caught or just you. So you make the logical decision, and tell your team to leave without you. They can barely remember their training in the face of this unexpected attack, but they know just enough to recognize that they shouldn't leave you behind. But you're forceful, and scary to them, and they're just kids caught in the middle of a firefight, and you watch them drive away, before something hits you and you pass out.

_It's dark._

The next six months of your life are a blur of pain, blood, screaming, insanity, whispers, hallucinations, nightmares. You detach yourself, you lose yourself. You lie in a foreign language until they realize what you're doing, and then you stop talking. Aloud, that is. Inside, you're a mess of declarations and questions. You lose your sense of time, lose hours and minutes as you retreat further and further into your mind. You lock yourself inside the halls of you brain, barricading yourself behind doors _so many doors. _You never allow yourself to physically cry-they can't see that, you won't let them-but in your dreams, anything goes. You regress, you find yourself envisioning every single conversation with Adam, the last time you saw Eliot, your mother's smile, and then of course-

"_Good evening, my little prince_."

This, more than anything, convinces you that they've finally killed you. You open your dry eyes and see Ilia, standing above you, immaculate in his neat suit. You're dehydrated, covered in dry blood, your ankle is twisted almost completely backward, and you can't feel your left arm, but there is your father.

"Papa," you say. Your voice creaks from lack of use. You try to swallow but find blood blocking your throat, so you cough, spraying drops of red everywhere. Ilia looks at you sadly. "Papa," you repeat, desperately.

He walks over to you, kneels beside your mangled body. His hand ghosts over your forehead, but you force your eyes to stay open, terrified of losing the vision. Ilia looks exactly like how you remember him, and his touch acts like a healing balm. Under his touch, you're a child once more.

"Arthur, my poor boy," he whispers in Russian. "Remember what I said. Little thieves are hanged, but great ones escape."

_Great ones escape_. You blink, and Ilia is gone, and you wail at the loss of him.

Time passes, or so you tell yourself. The psychological strain is debilitating, and the cost of maintaining your sanity is high. In exchange for knowing what is happening to you and why, you begin to lose little pieces of your personality. You can no longer recall what your laugh sounds like, what the sun on your skin feels like, the color of the ocean off the Santa Monica Pier. Your life has been reduced to a blur of empty longing for the past, and you eventually begin to wish for your death, for the end of this limbo.

Your salvation comes in the form of a candle.

It's night, and you're lying at the bottom of a pit. You've been there for a while- _hours __days weeks_- and you can no longer feel anything below your waist. The taste and smell of the blood is your only constant these days, but you can't even distinguish it from your sweat. You're convinced that this is the end, that you're just a few minute heartbeats away from death. So when a single ray of light held up to your right eye nearly blinds you, you begin to cry in relief at the deliverance that has finally found you.

It's a man, his face hidden in shadow, but you can tell he's white, a contrast to the human contact you've been with as of late. You want to tell him how glad you are to see him, this angel, but you can't find your voice.

"Who are you?" He whispers in confusion. Confusion?

_Haven't you come for me?_ It takes another second for you to realize that you've actually spoken, and the words sound faint on your damaged and twisted vocal cords.

He frowns at you, and terror races through you at the thought that maybe you're supposed to be damned to Hell instead, that this angel's coming to you was all a mistake. Before the fear can grip you, you remember the place you are leaving behind, and suddenly, you are no longer afraid.

That all changes when the pain returns in brutal force.

Your world transforms into a swirl of color and bright light, pain exacerbated and focused on you. Your legs are on fire, you swear they're on fire, and you're screaming at anyone to _kill me now, why are you doing this to me?_ There is only never-ending destruction in this new place; Hell is worse than you ever imagined. You close your eyes, you vow, for the last time.

A voice calling your name brings you back to reality. It's your mother, and she's sobbing.

Your recovery is taxing and long. You're damaged in every possible way a person can be damaged, and many doctors believe you're irreparable, that you will forever be broken and someone should put you out of your misery. You go to physical therapy, struggling to regain the use of your mangled legs. You see a psychiatrist, drowning your sorrows in fancy-named medications rather than the hard liquor you really desire. You undergo numerous surgeries, both in the name of piecing your both together and also your vanity.

When you finally see yourself in the mirror, Adam at your side, you both cannot stop staring. Your legs resemble half-peeled carrots, thin and sinewy and multicolored. Your chest is a mess of twisted lines and roads that lead nowhere, the world's most impossible treasure map. But it's really your eyes that disarm you. The pools of auburn brown are disturbingly blank, empty, haunted. You have left your ability to fear in Afghanistan, at the cost of your ability to feel anything else.

Adam and Evangeline never leave you. They are steadfast in their unwavering support, Earth-shattering devotion. But things are different now. Rather than looking at them and seeing your brother and mother, you see future victims of the torture you went through. You see weapons against you, bait that could take you down. Either you must give up your hopes and dreams for your future, or you give up them.

One day in December, shortly after you've begun classes again and almost a year since your rescue from Afghanistan, Cobb turns up at Harvard. He comments that you look very thin and tired, and you lie and suggest it's due to finals. Over hot soup in Boston, he tells you that his offer is still on the table, that he has a job lined up in Paris for the New Year and he would like you to join him and Mal on it.

Dreaming is an addiction, and nowadays, the only thing you have left. You inject yourself with somnacin daily, disappearing into beautiful and peaceful worlds to cope with the anguish of the real one. Your mother fusses over the increasing pinprick scars on your wrists, and you snap at her with a comment of how completely ruined and scarred your body already is. One look into her hurt green eyes, and you know what you must do now.

You force them away, packing them off to California. Adam reluctantly returns to Los Angeles, where he's doing his surgical residency, and your mother attempts to return to her life in Oceanside. At Harvard, you study and pass your final exams. Eliot escorts you to Washington when you ask him to; he has been with you through it all, racked with guilt and grief over what has happened to you. You're not sure how you feel about him at this point; you're certain you harbor at least some resentment towards him, but you do your best to bury it.

In Washington, you lay out your plan: you want to kill Arthur Zaleski.

It's shockingly easy. The Military worships you, is so grateful to you, that it's all too easy to get them to erase all traces of you from their systems, government databases. With Eliot, you ground out your story, the demise of Arthur Beckett Zaleski.

You legally die on January 1, 2003, at the age of twenty-one. Your mother is told that you were killed when you returned to Afghanistan, to review the country and come to terms with what happened to you there. She is told you died quickly, in a bomb attack on Kabul. She receives a casket, nailed shut, along with a draped American flag, and it is the flag, more than anything else, that convinces her that you're really dead. Adam lingers in denial longer, putting in extensive hours at the hospital rather than facing the sight of your boxed belongings lying around your shared childhood bedroom. He arranges a small and intimate funeral for you, which Eliot attends of course, and then calls you to tell you about it, as you wait in Manhattan for your flight to Paris. You learn that your mother cried the whole time, that Adam's eulogy was heartbreaking, and that of all people, Jonah Mellark attended, distraught and guilty as hell.

The moment you get on the plane, you abandon Arthur Zaleski and become, for this time at least, Arthur Bristol.

Cobb and Mal are thrilled to see you, unaware of the emotional upheaval it has taken to bring you to France. They cotton on quickly that you have no interest in discussing your past, Harvard, the military, and most of all, your family. Luckily, you have a burgeoning career in espionage to focus on instead.

The three of you dominate the underground world of dream theft, becoming legends across the globe. Mal works as your extractor, seductive and brilliant. Cobb is the architect, creating worlds and spaces that are unyielding and fluid. You are the point man, exercising all the skills Eliot and the military ever taught you, killing threats in both dreams and occasionally reality. Mal and Cobb are your family, and you will kill to protect them.

Early in your new life, you leave Cobb and Mal for a month, with an explanation of tying up some loose ends. You step foot in Russia for the first time since your father's death, and it is there that you exercise your connections and influence to hunt down the men responsible for Ilia's death. You strangle them, drown them, dismember them, make them _hurt_ for the murder of your father. You never reveal yourself to them, but you leave your mark on the country. From then on, Russian dream-sharers will murmur about the thin, tall American who shows no mercy.

Your life is a blur of first class airplanes, five-star hotels, expensive dinners, exotic women, and drinks with multiple syllables. Your passport wears out within the first year, and Arthur Bristol becomes Arthur Eliot. The years pass in a whirl of different identities, new surnames: Arthur Jacobi, Arthur Lattner, Arthur Thorne, Arthur Collins, randomly generated names from ethnicities you could be from, though you stay far away from Russian. You allow yourself to fleetingly think of your family; when you have to create a new identity and realize it's your mother's birthday, you choose her maiden name, claiming it as your own: Arthur Beckett.

You act as Cobb's Best Man when he marries Mal in Nice, and are present for the births of both of their children, hugging the proud parents when they ask you to be the children's godfather. Though you've rarely spent time from them, watching the way they interact as a family, buying a large house in San Francisco (you resist the desire to drive down to Oceanside, if only to see Evangeline one more time) makes you realize just how much they don't know about you. Cobb repeatedly calls you his best friend, and Mal embraces you like you're her little brother, and the children love you like you aren't a murderer, a liar, a thief, a criminal who abandoned his family. You wonder what you could do to emotionally open up to them, but come up blank.

You lost so much of what makes you human in Afghanistan.

But then, the worst happens: you're woken up in Melbourne by a call from a panicked Cobb. Mal is dead.

You fly back to the States without a backwards glance at the woman you've been casually seeing in Australia. Cobb has already fled to Paris, as the presumed lead suspect in Mal's death. He leaves you to pick up the pieces, to counsel the children, along with Mal's devastated parents; after making sure Cobb had made it to France, Miles booked the next flight to California. It breaks your heart to try and explain to Philippa and James that their mother is never coming home, and forces you to revisit those early days following Ilia's death. As you tuck them into bed one night, you find yourself telling them of your own dead parent, whispering to them of how you know he's never really left you, how he you saw him in your darkest hour. When you leave them sleeping, you spot Miles' frozen face; even if the children believe your darkest hour was a bad day at work, Miles understands there is much more to your past than he can comprehend.

In Europe, you track down Cobb, drunk and passed out at a bar in Naples. You carry him back to his hotel, get him sober, describe a new job that's just opened up in Helsinki. You're good at putting people back together again; you patched Evangeline up after Ilia died, you forced an annoying British forger called Eames to rejoin society after his wife left him, and now you're waking Cobb up. The only thing he asks about are his children, if they're okay. You answer as best as you can: they _will_ be okay. When Cobb opens his eyes again, he is the strong leader you've always known.

Cobb is still shattered, and you know life will never be the same for the two of you, both professionally and privately. Cobb's mind has been altered since Mal's suicide, and she often creeps up in the dreams he creates, ruining jobs and killing you. The one time you tried to kill her first, wrapping your arms around her neck in an attempt to asphyxiate her, Cobb stabbed you in the back, as cliché as possible. You walked out of that job, but returned to Cobb, after he tearfully pleaded with you to stay with him, _don't leave me too_. When Cobb looks at you, he sees Mal.

Everything changes in Japan, seven years after Arthur Zaleski died.

You allow Cobb to cling to his delusion that he has finally found a way home, even though his method of getting there is nothing short of lunacy, in your opinion. Your anxiety mounts as Cobb drags you back to Paris, giving you the task of putting the shop together while he hunts for a new architect. You've all but convinced yourself that what Cobb really needs is a good blow to the head when he calls your name, you turn around, and your world shifts on its axis.

Her name is Ariadne. She's twenty-two years old, from Montreal, a graduate student at the Beaux-Arts, Miles' new protégé, a Cancer sign, just over five feet tall, and the one you've spent your entire life waiting for.

You're finally experiencing emotions you haven't felt in a decade. You're completely enchanted by her. You catalogue her smile, commit the way her hair looks in the light to memory, what the scarf she never goes anywhere without feels like on the palm of your hand when you shake her awake from a bad dream. You don't even bother to try and tell yourself it's just a crush; you aren't stupid. This is alarmingly real.

You kiss her, and from that moment on, she owns you.

You both (barely) escape the job, and embark on this weird new relationship together. You follow her back to Paris and scrape up a new life. You drop the lies, the false identities. Arthur Zaleski is reborn in New York City, and becomes a citizen of France. You buy a fancy new apartment near the Seine, and she squeals when you ask her to move in. The first time she tells you that she loves you, you realize that this is really what it feels like to be on fire.

There are no secrets between the two of you. She lovingly kisses every scar you bear, squeezes your hand when you watch a war story on the news, wraps her arms around your waist when you pass two young brothers playing in the street. For the first time in your whole life, you have someone to share the burden of the past with.

When you vacation in Italy, you buy a ring and hide it in the PASIV, waiting to propose until she's ready. You should've known that this feeling of peace and serenity will not last.

Cobb's betrayal is blistering and annihilating. He singlehandedly upends your life without a moment's pause, and you loathe him for it. He cannot comprehend that Ariadne is the center of your universe, how your devotion has changed from Cobb and his children to her. When Eames chastises you for your relationship, you fall into further self-loathing. You're going to keep her alive, if it's the last thing you do.

Your determination to save her proves to be your undoing. Ariadne's stubborn and strong, and neither of you can admit you're wrong, and you can only watch as the relationship goes down in flames. She breaks your heart more thoroughly than you've ever done yourself. _  
_

Micah Harper becomes your biggest hope that there is still good in a world that has only ever taken the things you love. In Micah, you see a younger, brighter, optimistic version of yourself and you view him with a mix of sorrow and longing. Micah adores you, sees you as a mix of mentor and brother. In your own odd way, you love him as well.

As your death becomes inevitable, you journey to Oceanside for the first time in over ten years. The warm embrace of your mother and the illuminating smile of your brother act like a healing balm to your recently lost love. Adam reluctantly accepts your impending demise, but retains an air of disbelief: he won't believe that you're gone until you're really gone.

You and Ariadne reconcile in the eleventh hour, and you're certain that saying goodbye to her is the hardest thing you'll ever have to do. At least you won't be leaving her alone; acknowledging that Eames, in his own weird way, loves her is the second most difficult thing to accept.

The job happens, you wake up, you shoot Browning, you run with Ariadne and Micah, you're shot in the stomach, you're pushing Ariadne out to safety, you're being shoved towards an empty elevator shaft, you're shot in the chest.

You fall.

It's a short fall, and you land, hard, on rubble that digs into your back. You gasp for breath, feeling your heart slowing; the bullet has buried itself just above it. Moments before your eyes close, you see a group of men gathered above you. You remember the last time you mistook men for angels and you pass out in disturbed confusion.

_You're dead_.

It's the only answer to this new round of pain and suffering. You're cut open, bullets fished out from inside, you flatline but see nothing, no light, _no Ilia_, and you're back and all you can think of is her-

_Ariadne_.

Her name is your mantra, your reason for survival. You cling to a ledge, legs kicking and scrabbling, reaching for a life that is slipping away. You search for her, _don't leave me, please_, but she isn't here. The only thing you find is a cold, cruel laugh, of a man who has dedicated his life to destroying yours.

At long last, you've finally been banished to the underworld. Because this, this is hell.

He steals your memories, your emotions, your thoughts. Anything and everything that is connected to her, to the way you love her, is stolen from you. It's like Afghanistan all over again: you know exactly what is happening to you, and why. But this time, you'd do anything to be ignorant, to not know who she was, who you were, who you were together, and be powerless to prevent the loss of it.

She comes for you, of course, because Volkov has told you that she loves you. But seeing her, looking in her dark eyes, the desperation and fear paramount in her eyes-

You feel nothing.

Arthur Beckett Zaleski officially died ten years ago when he was struck by a bomb in Kabul. But you, the real you, whoever you are, you aren't dead. You're worse than dead, because the woman you once loved more than anything in the world, the woman you gave your life for, is looking at you and you couldn't care less.

_Where am I? What happened to me? Why can I not love her?_

You search for answers in your mind, and come up blank. Everything that has ever happened to you flashes before your eyes.

You hear Adam's laugh, throwing a baseball to him, lying awake at night and telling ghost stories. Evangeline's smile, the sunshine on her skin, holding her hand as you walk down the street. Eliot's medals, his hand patting your shoulder comfortingly, reading books together on the bus. Bristol's cane, walking through Tuscany side by side, raising your hand and him calling your name. Mal's beautiful eyes, the fluid way she dances, unstoppably taking down a projection. Miles' thin glasses, the stack of books he hides behind, a Parisian lunch by the Seine. Cobb's combed hair, his unique and brilliant drawings, him shooting you awake from a nightmare. Philippa and James, knobby knees and counting to ten, holding your hands as they cross the street.

Eames' smug smirk, spinning his returned engagement ring, smiling adoringly at Ariadne... He used to be like a friend.

Micah's terror-filled face, struggling under the water, sobbing and pale... He used to be like a brother.

Ariadne... She used to be-

_Who are you?_

You've disappeared.

**review, please. what'd you think of the second person/Arthur's story? (AT LEAST APPRECIATE THE RESEARCH I DID ON AFGHANISTAN)**

******I was just looking at "Story Stats" and I feel so humbled at how many people are reading this story, and how many people have read "To Lose My Life." (People are _still_ reading it!) So thank you, for reading this. it really means a lot to me.**

**next chapter fun: checking in with Mr. Eames (and the Rolling Stones)! Two characters from "To Lose My Life" are coming back. I'm really excited about writing this one.**


	14. Paint It Black

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers inspire me to keep writing- ****_Laura-xx_****: I don't know how the 2nd person thing happened, but it was fun. haha, thanks for the kudos. ****_theonlyredhead_****: what no! thanks so much, I worked hard on that chapter. ****_Yuumii_****: yeah, that was the idea. I wanted it to feel really personal/real. ****_danastarry: _****you can literally not give me a higher compliment than about my writing. I'm so flattered. and I adore that song... ****_WordsofWhimsy_****: oh hello! Are you a new reader/reviewer? and whatever do you mean, the one you've been waiting for? ****_in. blue. 85_****: luckily for me, this chapter was about a third finished before I even posted the 1st chapter of this story, so it helped speed up the update. :) thanks! _knuckiducki_: yes yes yes review asap! hahaha. I'm not sure about the song... and thanks for the PM; it's been fixed. _rcool98_: hello, welcome! your dedication is wonderful; thanks so much. _jgutts98_: thanks! and I'll answer any questions you have, assuming they aren't spoiler-related. ;) _Marianne 16_: aw thanks! I try... _InvictaAnimi_: well hello! thanks for dropping a line.**

**yeah, so it's been a while... (a whole frigging month!) I won't bore you to tears with excuses, but it looks like I will have some optimum writing time in a few weeks when I go on vacation whoo hoo!**

**108 reviews! Huzzah! and I just checked my outline, and last chapter was the halfway point of the story, so there's that.**

**chapter title from the Rolling Stones song. classic.**

Paint It Black

Friday, May 24, 2013: Chicago, Illinois: The Cobb House: Eames

_Dear Mr. Christoph Andela,_

_I am a doctor based in Chicago, specializing in infectious disease, and it is my great sorrow to confirm that Ms. Chopin has become afflicted with a serious illness and will need to go on immediate medical leave from her work at your company, Achtung. I cannot, at this time, disclose the nature of Ms. Chopin's illness in the name of patient-doctor confidentiality. In fact, the only other information I can readily give you is that Ms. Chopin's treatment will last at least three months and she won't be able to work at all in that time. _

_Attached are the required documents to officiate Ms. Chopin's medical leave, along with all my contact information. Much of Ms. Chopin's immediate care will take place at my clinic in Chicago, though she will be in New York for short periods of time for other methods of treatment. As standard the nature of her illness, I must recommend you do not come into immediate contact with Ms. Chopin._

_Please, feel free to contact me with any questions and concerns._

_With warm regards,_

_Charles Eames, M.D._

"Charles? What old relation is that?"

Eames finished signing the elaborate signature of Charles Eames, M.D., and looked up. Micah stood before his desk, arms crossed, frowning down at the business letter in front of him. Eames carefully folded the letter and placed it in the ivory envelope, not looking at Micah. He brought the envelope to his mouth but hesitated. A moment later, he held it out to Micah.

Micah stared, eyebrows raised. Eames sighed.

"The U.S. government happens to have my DNA on hand," Eames explained. "I'd rather not take the risk."

"Oh, so I'm the sacrificial lamb?" Micah retorted scathingly. "You didn't even answer my question."

"As far as I'm aware, I'm not related to a Charles Eames," Eames replied. "But I've always liked the name. It can be very formal and intimidating- Charles- but also fun and light- Charlie."

Micah considered this. "Um... I guess?"

"I don't want to intimidate poor Mr. Andela and put Ariadne's burgeoning career into jeopardy," Eames said cheerfully. Micah licked the envelope closed and returned it to Eames, who beamed at him until the younger man rolled his eyes. "But I do want to establish my-I mean, Ariadne's doctor's authority. I would really hate to see Mr. Andela become suspicious and confront the sick girl."

"What is it that Ariadne is afflicted with, anyway?"

Eames shrugged. "Not sure. I'd rather not put the research into something like that. What do you think?"

Micah barely hesitated. "What's it called... Takotsubo cardiomyopathy."

Eames looked away, glancing outside the window of Cobb's study, which he and Micah were currently ensconced in. Outside, a still-completely bald Arthur was lying on his back in the tall grass of the backyard, still so unusually casual in jeans and a t-shirt. His eyes were closed, as Philippa leaned over him, covering his chest in ornately weaved daisies. Nearby, James was yelling something as he rammed two toy trucks together. And a little further away, Ariadne sat on the back porch steps, her head on her hand, watching the scene.

"Broken heart syndrome," Eames murmured, voicing the common name of the affliction Micah had suggested.

"It's certainly plausible," Micah said softly. "And heart failure isn't something to be taken lightly. Though, broken heart syndrome isn't really contagious..."

Irritated (though if he was being honest, the irrational annoyance wasn't directed at Micah), Eames rose to his feet. He picked up the finished envelope, turning it over in his hands.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Eames muttered. He walked out of the study, Micah following him quietly.

In the kitchen, they found Cobb on the telephone, his back to them as he looked out the window. On the counter were the makings of the sandwiches he was preparing for the children's lunches; jelly and peanut butter stains littered the hard marble. Miles was sitting near the mess, carefully reading the newspaper and ignoring Cobb's discussion.

"... We're here," Cobb was saying, unaware that Eames and Micah had entered. "Yeah." He paused, as the person on the other end spoke. Eames exchanged a bemused look with Micah. He ran through his mind all the potential people Cobb could be talking with, but found himself coming up blank. "Yeah, yeah, I won't-" Cobb broke off and turned around when Micah, attempting to steal a spoonful of peanut butter, knocked the jar over. His face maintained a casually neutral expression. "Anyway, we'll talk about it when you get here. See you soon." He hung up the phone with a click.

"Who was that?" Eames asked.

Cobb gave him a look, and Eames ascertained that he was trying to determine whether lying was wise or not. Rather than giving an honest answer, he cryptically replied with, "You'll see."

Miles lowered the paper. "Why the mystery?"

Cobb didn't reply. Instead, he returned to making his children sandwiches. "Could someone call in Pippa and James for me?"

_Everyone's brooding today_, Eames thought darkly to himself, as he voluntarily turned and opened the door to the backyard, Micah following him outside. He let the younger man approach Arthur and the children, uttering a few words to the kids that sent them cheering and giggling into the house, the door slamming shut behind them. As Eames watched, Arthur sat up and Micah settled onto the grass next to him. Rather than join them, Eames strolled to the steps and sank down next to Ariadne.

She glanced at him. "Hey Edward."

"Soaking up some sunshine?" He asked.

"Sure, why not?"

Eames reached into his pocket and handed the sealed envelope to her. "As you wished."

Ariadne frowned, but accepted the letter. "Thank you. This means a lot to me."

"Anything for you, my love," Eames said lightly. Ariadne stilled and looked at him from behind a curtain of dark hair.

"Edward..."

"I know," he said tightly.

"I'm just... I worry about you. I asked you to forge a medical leave for me so I can focus on helping Arthur, and I just, I don't want you to think-"

"It doesn't matter what I think, Ari," Eames said tightly.

She turned away, casting her eyes back on the lawn. Micah was speaking to Arthur, who tore apart chunks of grass in front of them. Even from this distance, Eames could tell Arthur was tense, his shoulders hunched like the weight of the world rested on them.

"He doesn't call me that," she said suddenly.

_Call you the weight of the world? God I hope not._ "Pardon?"

"Ari," she repeated. "He only calls me Ariadne now. No... Nothing else."

Eames picked at his nails, suddenly wishing he'd stayed in same, protected from this intimate conversation by children and peanut butter sandwiches. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "I shouldn't be surprised, right? He isn't really himself."

"Yes, but... It can still hurt," Eames said. He wondered how the hell he'd ended up counseling Ariadne about this. He opened his mouth to change the subject-to anything really, even the weather again-when the porch door banged open. Both he and Ariadne jumped in alarm, spinning around. Beside him, Ariadne gasped.

A woman, in her mid-sixties or so, stood framed in the doorway. She was short but willowy, with shoulder-length dark brown hair that was tinged with bright white strands. She wore a green dress that matched the color of her emerald eyes nearly perfectly, even hidden behind thin-framed glasses. As Eames looked at her, he discovered he had an uncomfortable sense of familiarity, like he knew this woman but just could not place how in that moment. He opened his mouth to offer a greeting when the woman moved.

She was unexpectedly fast for her age and stance, and Eames dived out of the way of her clacking heels as she practically jumped off the porch. On the lawn, Micah was scrambling awkwardly to his feet, his eyes not on the woman, but on Arthur, who stood tall, very still. The look on his face froze Eames on the spot.

His auburn eyes were wide with shock, and his hands were clenched into fists at the sight of the woman rapidly approaching him. Gone were his hunched shoulders; now Arthur stood with a purpose, a certain sense of alarm on his features. Eames could not stop staring, just as the woman finally reached him. She was half a foot shorter than him, but held her head high to stare into Arthur's face.

And then she slapped him.

Eames and Ariadne were immediately on their feet and moving towards the pair. Micah seemed to be paralyzed with shock, his mouth dropped open. The woman slapped Arthur again, who took another step back from the assault. She stepped with him and hit him a third time, the sharp sound of her palm on his skin reverberating through the yard.

"_Mom!_"

Eames was roughly shoved aside as a tall, thin man with neat brown hair sprinted to the scene. Without hesitation, he stepped in between Arthur and the woman, seizing her upper arms and forcing her to halt her attack on Arthur. For one wild moment, Eames was convinced he was seeing double, for how could a second Arthur suddenly arrive to save the first?

It was another moment more before he caught up to what was really happening.

"Mom, what the hell are you doing?" Adam demanded, his voice sharp in shock. He glared at the woman, who stared back until he reluctantly released her. She sat back on the heels of her shoes, crossing her arms over her chest. He looked at her for another moment longer, before sighing and muttering, "_Jesus Christ_."

"What..." It was Arthur who spoke at last, standing several feet behind Adam and the woman. His jaw was slack with surprise, his cheek an unnaturally bright shade of red from the multiple slaps. Adam and-there was no denying it now-their mother turned to him.

Arthur swallowed once. "Mom?"

His voice, a mere croak, seemed to unleash something in his mother. The next thing anyone knew, she'd darted past Adam and thrown herself into Arthur's arms, sobbing. He held her tightly, and Eames' heart stopped beating at the sight of Arthur brokenly crying with her, burying his face in her hair.

The last (and first) time he'd seen Arthur cry had been days before the Browning job, when Arthur had driven him to an isolated beach next to the Pacific Ocean, where he'd explained his end goal: that he was going to die, and that as a last favor to him, Eames would take Ariadne back to Paris. The moment had been overwhelmingly sad and difficult for both men, but there was something even worse about watching this version of Arthur cry. Last time had been the tears of losing something.

This time, Arthur was crying because there was nothing left to lose.

Cobb, Miles and the children stepped onto the porch. Cobb and Miles were solemn, while the children were simply confused, their eyes darting from Arthur to Adam and back. Eames couldn't blame them; the only thing different about the two men at this moment was the lack of hair on Arthur.

Eames glanced at Ariadne next to him. Her eyes were locked on Arthur and his mother, her eyes shimmering with emotion. He wanted desperately to say something, to know anything logical and reasonable that could reassure him that the world was still real, but his throat was dry.

Arthur's mother was murmuring to her son, and Arthur was nodding defeatedly in response. They broke apart, and this time when she touched his face, it was all gentleness and compassion and devotion.

"No more," she said, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "No more."

He nodded again. "I'm sorry, mom."

Adam slipped past the old woman, and without comment, he and Arthur reached for each other, arms around shoulders and necks. Adam pressed his forehead to Arthur's, but didn't say a word. To Eames, the simple gesture alone spoke volumes. They didn't call it twin-tuition for nothing.

Eventually, Adam turned away, finally acknowledging the small crowd that was staring at them. His eyes flickered over Micah, and Eames, before settling on Ariadne. He smiled, and shivers erupted up Eames' back at how familiar that grin was.

"Hey, Ariadne," Adam said.

She beamed and raced over. He hugged her warmly, shoulders bent, as Ariadne began to babble.

"How did you know? When did you get here? How're Lily and the kids? Did you get time off work? How long will you be here-"

"Slow down there," Adam said gently, straightening up. Arthur's eyes were focused on Adam, ignoring the relief that was practically radiating off Ariadne. "I think we have to clear up something else first." Both he and Ariadne looked at the woman next to them. She stretched her hand out, and Ariadne took it gently.

"Hello, Eva," Ariadne whispered.

The woman, Eva, smiled, squeezing Ariadne's hand in both of her own. "Hello, my dear. It's wonderful to see you again."

_Again?_ Eames thought in bewilderment. As far as he was aware, Ariadne had never met Arthur's mother, just as he'd never met any of her family. There must've been some sort of development since Arthur's most recent death.

"Everyone, this is Eva Beckett and Adam Zaleski," Ariadne spoke up. "Arthur's mother and brother. Eva, Adam, this is Micah Harper, Edward Eames, Dom Cobb, Stephen Miles, and Philippa and James."

"You all work with Arthur?" Eva asked. Unable to come up with anything more accurate, Eames could only nod.

A soft breeze blew across the yard, and everyone noticed Arthur's unusually violent shiver. Concerned, Eva rubber her hand along his bare arm, the prime example of a coddling mother.

Cobb cleared his throat. "Why don't we go inside?"

* * *

It took hours to get Philippa and James to calm down enough to accept Adam and Eva. They were stunned that Arthur had an identical twin he'd never mentioned, and beside themselves that they had never met his mother either. Arthur gave the perfect responses, assuaging their concerns by pointing out that his brother was a very busy surgeon and they both lived in Southern California, which was still far from the Cobbs' old house in San Francisco.

Adam watched with amusement as Arthur interacted with the children, smiling at the way he got the children to laugh and chuckling at how the children clearly worshipped him. But Eva was less impressed. She kept her eyes on Arthur all day, always near his side. As the day progressed, her green eyes grew more and more worried. There was no fooling a mother; she knew something was terribly wrong with her son.

Eames had managed to corner Ariadne to ask when she'd met Eva. She'd explained that she had gone back to California during spring break at Beaux-Arts, at Adam's request. He'd then invited her to dinner with his family, including Eva.

"She's interesting," Ariadne said of the older woman. "She's very, very smart. And tough. She can be pretty intimidating because she has a certain way of doing things and doesn't like backing down to others." She smirked. "Explains a bit about Arthur."

After dinner, it was Miles who came up with the perfect excuse to steal Arthur away so Eva and Adam could understand the full reality of what had happened to Arthur without Arthur being around to downplay anything. Miles dragged Arthur upstairs under the pretense of helping him put Philippa and James to bed (complete with storytime, of course) while everyone else gathered in the living room.

"You have a lovely family, Mr. Cobb," Eva said as Eames presented her with a cup of coffee.

"Thank you. And please, Eva... Call me Dom."

Eva's lips twisted into a thin line that reminded Eames eerily of Arthur's disapproving scowl. Adam and Micah walked in from the kitchen, chortling about something. As soon as Adam had settled down next to her on the sofa, Eva spoke.

"What exactly has happened to my son?"

Wasn't that the million dollar question. Eames exchanged a look with Cobb, willing the extractor to take the lead.

"Arthur has been... for lack of a better term... hijacked." Eva looked blankly back, so Cobb took a deep breath and proceeded to explain everything that had happened since the Browning job in Los Angeles.

When he was finished, Eva was in tears and Adam looked murderous.

"So he's psychologically 'not here'?" Adam demanded. "What does that mean? How do we help him?"

Eames shrugged helplessly. "Your guess is as good as ours."

"But... you work in dreams! Hasn't this happened before?"

"Nothing like this," Eames said. "Nothing this advanced or cruel."

"So... What?" Adam said blankly. "What do we do?" His hands twisted in his lap, obviously distressed.

Across the room, Micah was uncharacteristically solemn, arms folded neatly. Cobb was perched in the armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose in stress. And then there was Ariadne, so small and full to the brim with anxiety.

"He needs to see a professional," Eva said briskly. Everyone looked at her. "I made that mistake once with Arthur. I didn't give him the help he truly needed after Eli passed away. I know better now." She surveyed the group, looking like the epitome of a strict teacher, glasses and all. "Do anyone of you have any possible contacts?"

Ariadne cleared her throat. "I'm seeing-or, I was seeing a psychiatrist who, um, specializes in dreams... He's very good."

"Okay. That's who Arthur will see then." Eva looked at Ariadne. "And will you stay with him in New York?"

Ariadne stared right back, her eyes hard and determined. She spoke only one word, but to Eames, it rang of a million reassurances: "Always."

**anyone still reading?**

**next chapter preview: some Depeche Mode, a not-so new location, good old present Arthur POV, Arthur and Ariadne sit down and have a little talk and then maybe a kiss or two; but it might not be between who you expect.**


	15. Ghost

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers are an uber bingo- _Majestic Moments_: haha, no worries. I love how you're comparing present Arthur to past Arthur, as I was hoping someone would! _Iole17_: hi! thanks for sticking with it. _Laura-xx_: bleh, I can't believe it was a whole month... thank you! _In. Blue. 85_: yeah, poor Eva is right! and tease... I know, it's bad. _theonlyredhead_: yay familial support... yup there's a bit of Arthur and Ariadne in this chapter... _Lazarus76_: hi! I've been away from this site for a month so I'm way behind on all your stories too. _Knuckiducki_: man, you're really good at keeping me on my toes... I think Cobb brought them in without telling Arthur because he knew Arthur wouldn't want to see them; remember, Arthur's memory is skewed, so I don't think he remembers meeting them in "To Lose My Life." and I think Cobb, especially as a parent himself, knew Eva needed this, and that Arthur did too. _Eeyore08_: yay for catching up! I read "Adam and Eva" in your review and I JUST realized how similar that is to Adam and Eve... make of that what you will. _Kamiragem_: oh hello! I don't remember hearing from you before, so how's it going? thanks for saying hi! _Yuumii_: well rejoice, because this won't be the last we see of Adam... ;) _gina1276_: better than you expected? I'll take that! :D _toolazytologin_ (lolz): wow, what kind words! thank you!**

**I wrote this chapter in three days! with work and school and everything! that's crazy fast, like "To Lose My Life" fast. (when I was on vacation, writing "To Lose My Life," I wrote two chapters a day. so almost that fast.) Incidentally, I'm going to that same vacation spot soon, so I might not update for a week or two.**

**chapter title from the very haunting and accurate Depeche Mode song.**

Ghost

Sunday, May 26, 2013: New York City, New York: Ariadne's Apartment: Arthur

The streets of New York flew by, an odd mixture of bright colors, subdued grays and a cacophony of blurred human faces, the unique mix that made up the large city. Arthur watched the scene with vague interest, sitting very still in the back of the taxi, Ariadne sitting next to him.

The two of them were headed towards Ariadne's apartment in Soho, having just landed at LaGuardia Airport an hour previously. Ariadne wanted to tidy up the place a bit before Eames and Micah turned up; they were presently going to Williamsburg, to see Micah's sister, Bethany. Arthur wasn't sure why Ariadne felt so compelled to make her home neat for Eames and Micah. He'd so far been led to believe that the three were very good friends, close enough to turn up at houses without caring if the floors hadn't been swept.

But then, of course, Arthur wondered if the whole thing was really an excuse for he and Ariadne to spend time alone.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible. She was leaning against her window, dressed nicely in gray jeans and a brown jacket, while Arthur felt uncomfortably casual in his jeans and sweatshirt. He thought of how she looked when he'd "last" seen her, on the Fischer job, when he woke up on the airplane and twisted around in his seat to meet her wide smile of success.

This Ariadne was much older, and not just in physical age. Her posture was weary, the result of someone who had dealt with numerous emotional blows. Her chocolate brown eyes were almost darker now, too, like sometimes she just couldn't bear to see the real world. As he looked at her, she reached for her neck, gently pushing aside her dark purple scarf and playing with a necklace at her throat.

Almost as if she could sense he was watching her, she turned her head, awkwardly meeting his eyes.

She smiled tightly. "Almost there."

He nodded once. "Great."

"How are you doing?"

He knew he needed to tell her the truth, to tell her that he couldn't remember her, that when he spent more than ten minutes in her presence it felt like someone was going at his mind with a blowtorch. She was killing him, slowly but surely, and he knew telling her as much would break her heart.

Even if he didn't remember ever having her heart in the first place.

"You moved here after... after Los Angeles?" He asked instead, checking a fact he'd memorized.

"Yeah," she said. "With Alison. You met her, but it's been a while..."

_Shit_. He had no memory of meeting Alison. He closed his eyes, forcing his mind to return to those early days of the job in Paris, when Cobb gave him the name of the new architect with an agreement that Arthur research her background. It hadn't taken long before he read about how she was a graduate student, 22 years old, living in the 14th arrondissement with a roommate named Alison Fletcher...

_Bingo_. Alison Fletcher, also at the Beaux-Arts, studying Illustration and Painting. Arthur visibly relaxed, pleased with what he could remember. Ariadne noticed.

"It's just Alison, Arthur. Don't be so worried."

The taxi stopped in front of a tall apartment building several blocks down from the Angelika, surrounded on all sides by chic restaurants, tiny coffee shops and elegant designer clothing studios. Arthur immediately felt out of place, though Ariadne clearly wasn't, as she accepted her bag from the driver and turned confidently to the building. Arthur surprised himself when he automatically stretched his hand out to gently pull her bag from her shoulder. Ariadne stared at him and he blushed.

"You lead," he said instead, nodding towards the building. After a moment, she slowly nodded and led the way inside, Arthur shadowing her.

He noticed that she ignored the elevator, opting instead to climb up four flights of stairs. He wondered about that for a moment-maybe she always climbed the stairs for the exercise, or maybe she wanted to stretch her legs after the flight and cab ride-until it hit him that she avoided elevators because she'd seen him fall from one. He chose not to say anything, not wanting to open up that mess.

They reached the fourth floor and Ariadne unlocked the white door marked 14. She pushed it open, and Arthur caught a glimpse of a spacious room with nice wooden floors before his attention was diverted by a female shriek.

"_Ariadne!_"

The next thing he knew, Ariadne was tackled by a woman several inches taller than her. She had curly caramel colored hair and hazel colored eyes, and was wearing a pale yellow sundress, her feet bare. She clutched Ariadne to her like a lifeline.

"You're finally home!" She cried. "Ugh, I've missed you so much! It's been so _boring_ without you here, and I got a new story at work to begin drawing, and a new bookstore opened a couple streets down and I thought of you and Paul-and _Paul_, he wants to see you again, and I just-"

She broke off abruptly, finally catching sight of Arthur standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

"Holy shit!" She yelled. She practically shoved Ariadne aside and jumped to Arthur, who froze up when she threw her arms around him.

"Oh my God, _Arthur_," the woman said. "I can't believe it! You're really alive! Gosh, this is so amazing. I have so much to talk to you about, Ari's been a complete mess without you, and you'll be glad to know she's thwarted all my attempts at setting her up with other men."

She paused, and Arthur realized it was his cue to speak. "Oh. Um... That's good."

Alison smirked. "You were always so quiet. It's endearing." She finally took a step back and Arthur straightened, rubbing his palms on his jeans in anxiety as Alison surveyed him critically.

"I'm not gonna lie, Arthur; you've looked better."

He couldn't help it; he cracked a grin. "It's nice to see you too, Alison. How're you liking the U.S.?"

Her face fell slightly, and she exchanged a swift look with a bemused Ariadne before turning back to him. "I think you must've forgotten, but I am from Miami. Ari's the foreigner."

"Oh, that's right." He blushed. He'd foolishly assumed that Alison was either French or Canadian, like Ariadne. He was saved from saying anything more stupid by Ariadne tugging forward the second occupant of the apartment, a skinny man with bleached blond hair.

"Arthur, this is Ethan Fitzgerald, Alison's boyfriend," Ariadne said. "Ethan, this is Arthur Zaleski... He's, um, an old friend from Paris." As she finished speaking, she shot a look at Alison, easily communicating that she'd better not suggest anything otherwise.

Ethan nodded, holding out his hand, which Arthur took. "Hey, man."

"Hello," Arthur said softly. Without anything better to do, he stuck his hands into his jeans pockets.

"Anyway," Ariadne spoke up. "I have a couple work friends coming over soon, if you feel like helping me clean." She paused and took a look around the apartment. It looked like most of the apartment consisted of one huge room, which included the kitchen, a sitting area and a dining table. A small hallway led to what he assumed were the bedrooms. "Though this isn't as messy as I thought it would be..."

Alison beamed. "Surprise! 'Spring cleaning' meets 'welcome home.'"

"Wow, Alison, thank you."

"You're welcome," Alison said. "We were actually about to head over to Ethan's too, so we'll get out of your hair before your friends come."

As Ariadne tried to assure Alison that she wouldn't be imposing if she and Ethan stayed, Arthur lightly tapped her shoulder, leaning down and murmuring into her ear, "I'll go put your bag in your room." She looked at him and nodded, and Arthur eagerly made his escape.

He walked down the narrow hallway, noting the photos of Paris that lined the walls. He found a bathroom, hall closet and minuscule laundry room before hesitating outside an open bedroom door. He glanced in, but knew it wasn't Ariadne's, judging by the amount of clothes on the floor and scraps of paper with sketches of woodland creatures and 2-D families. He stepped back out and faced the only closed door at the very end of the hall and pushed it open.

The room was small and tidy, dominated by the sunlight that streamed through the windows. Ariadne's bed was covered in a light green comforter, a folded silvery blanket at the foot of the bed. Arthur set her bag down on the made bed and began to look around.

A tall white dresser stood opposite the bed, a jewelry box, hairbrush and framed photographs resting on it. Arthur picked one up and spotted a teenage Ariadne, standing with an older boy and older girl, their arms around each other. Judging by the shared hair and facial features, he was looking at Ariadne with her older siblings, Zacharie and Josephine. In another photo, an older Ariadne held a diploma, the Eifel Tower in the background, standing between an older couple who could only be her parents, Juliet and Blaise.

He blinked, surprised at how easily the names came to him. He was certain-well, pretty certain-that he'd never met any of them.

Ariadne's closet was small, and dominated by the scarves that seemed to be popping out of every pocket and shelf. He smiled to himself, remembering how he'd never seen her without one. A stack of blueprints were in a corner and he unrolled one curiously, only to discover it was for a simple high-rise. None hinted at the extraordinary potential she'd exhibited for the Fischer job; the drawings he was looking at now were only ordinary.

And, he couldn't help but be surprised at the complete lack of him anywhere. She didn't have any photos of him, which Arthur definitely would've appreciated, so he could see the proof with his own eyes of the depth of their relationship. He reflected on Alison's fleeting comment about a man named Paul, and he wondered...

_But everyone's been telling me that she loves me_.

That was absolutely true. Eames, Cobb and Micah had all been adamant that Ariadne still loved him, and had waited for him all this time.

He spun around when the door opened. Ariadne hovered in the doorway. She grimly smiled and stepped inside, closing the door, as Arthur sat down on her bed.

"Alison and Ethan just left," she said softly. She stood in front of him, twisting her hands together. "And Eames texted me, they'll be here in a little bit, they're going to catch the subway."

"Okay," Arthur said. Silence fell. He was tense, nervous; the familiar pain was beginning to bubble up in his skull again. Rather than comment on that, he said instead, "This is a nice apartment."

She blushed. "Oh. Well, you should tell that to yourself."

He frowned. "Why?"

"You bought it."

He'd assumed that his money was tied up in litigation somewhere, unused since his supposed death. Arthur had been making plans in his mind to seek out his attorney here in New York to find out how he could go about retrieving his bank accounts and retracting his death certificate. If there'd been one...

It said a lot about his and Ariadne's relationship that he'd willed everything he'd had to her.

"I have good taste," he said, snapping out of his thoughts.

She laughed, a familiar warm chuckle that unleashed a wave of knives against his brain. He stiffened as she sank down onto the bed next to him. "Yeah. I knew you'd approve when I got it. Safe neighborhood, proximity to my workplace..."

"I see." She was watching him avidly, but he couldn't look at her. He felt bad, choosing to look at his sneaker-clad feet instead.

"I was thinking we could go shopping later," Ariadne said. "Since you don't have any clothes... or money..." Arthur nodded, still unable to look at her.

Ariadne took a deep breath. "I want to show you something."

She dropped to the floor and Arthur pulled his legs up when she reached under her bed. He could only stare as she pulled out a large shoebox, setting it between them on the bed and clambering back up. She nodded at it, and he lifted the lid.

His breath caught when he saw his own face.

"Ariadne," he whispered.

She grimaced. "These are the mementos of us, from our life together in Paris. Everything I could scrounge up. Photos, tickets, receipts... Anything with your touch on it. It's all here."

He couldn't bear to reach in and sift through the items, the flower petals, aftershave, an iPod. Arthur feared that even touching one of the artifacts would shock his arm off.

He closed his eyes. "Ariadne, I have to tell you something."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

That got his attention. "Saying what?"

"My full name," Ariadne said. "You don't call me Ari anymore."

_Ari_. Oh, God. How was he going to do this to her?

"I have to tell you something," Arthur repeated. "And please wait until I'm finished before you say anything." She looked concerned, but managed to nod once. Arthur took a deep breath, deciding it was best to just spit out the truth.

"I don't remember us. Volkov stole my memories of you; all I remember of you is what happened on the Fischer job. I don't remember being in a relationship with you, or living with you, or loving you... And Volkov has warped my brain so much, that I can't even sleep anymore. If I do, I get nightmares. Severe nightmares, like I'm back in Russia with him and he's torturing me again." He forced himself to meet her eyes. They were wide, shocked, horrified. "I look at you now, and I... you're just an acquaintance to me."

He opened his mouth to deliver the final blow-that just being close to her was debilitating-but she began to cry, and he found his voice had dried up.

"Oh, my God, Arthur," Ariadne gasped. "You don't... You don't even know me?"

"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered. "I know you still love me, and I know I loved you, but I don't anymore." _I can't_.

"Shit, shit, shit..." She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees and burying her face in her hands. She was trembling, even more so than sleep-deprived Arthur.

He studied her hunched form, willing himself to feel anything more than pained repulsion. Empathy, maybe, or sorrow too. Nothing came; he was completely numb. But he was still a human, and he knew how to comfort others. He stretched his hand out, brushing her back with his fingers.

She stilled and slowly sat up. They looked at each other. Arthur felt like a fly trapped in the web of her gaze, and he found himself completely immobile, unable to move as Ariadne carefully leaned forward, placed her hands purposefully on either side of his face, and pressed her lips to his.

He expected she'd meant for the kiss to be tranquil and adoring, her way of telling him that she was going to accept this revelation and what it meant for their future. But something changed when his breath blew over her face and the kiss quickly turned sensual, as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, scooting even closer to his body.

She tasted like strawberries and light, and there was something indescribably forbidden about her kissing him like this, without hesitation and awkwardness. But Arthur couldn't reciprocate. It felt like a great weight was resting on his head; a boulder, with a mallet poised to strike. He forced himself to reclaim his frozen body, tearing his mouth from hers and turning away. Her lips pressed against his cheek and a soft wince left his mouth.

"Oh, I completely forgot!" Ariadne cried. "Oh no, did that hurt?"

He was stunned; how did she know? Was kissing him some sadistic trick of hers? Some of the confusion must've shown in his face, because she clarified with, "Your neck... Volkov, I don't know, he might've-"

"Ah." He cut her off, shaking his head. "No, no... It's not that."

She frowned. "What?"

He sighed, wishing she would move back to her original spot, as opposed to her current one, where she was pressed against him. "Volkov... He _re-wired_ my brain in such a way, that being close to you causes me physical pain."

"I..." Ariadne stared. "_What?_"

"Being close to you... Right now, I feel like someone is drilling a hole through my head. Sometimes I get nauseous, and sometimes I actually throw up, if I'm with you for too long. I get dizzy, I feel achy... Just _sick_."

Her lip trembled as his voice died down. She seemed to recognize his words at least, for she hurriedly shoved herself back, falling onto her pillows. Some of the pain in Arthur's head lifted.

"Jesus," Ariadne whispered. "Oh my God. I can't... How do we..." She raised her head, looking into his eyes.

"We don't."

Her face twisted into one of anger. "How can you say that? Arthur, we can fix this, okay? It might take a while, but-"

He sighed. "Look, I appreciate your... dedication. But, look, Ariadne..." He shook his head dejectedly. "I'm in really bad shape. I'm exhausted, drained, and constantly on edge and in pain. I think you really need to make a contingency plan..."

He trailed off, at the murderous look on her face.

"Arthur Zaleski," she said darkly. (He was never going to get used to people calling him by his real last name.) "The last time you thought you were going to die, you refused to let me help you. Because of that, we nearly broke up, and you wound up like _this_." (They'd almost broken up? Arthur made a note to ask Micah about that later.) "So listen to me, now: You are not going to die. _I will not let you_."

Arthur looked at her, really looked at her, and saw beyond the innocent appearance and weary face. He looked at Ariadne, and saw, for a moment, a flash of a woman resolute and unwilling-unable-to lose someone she loved deeply for a second time. He looked at her, and he understood.

For a heartbeat, until the finality of his situation reared back by the ringing of a doorbell. He got up quickly, grateful for the distraction.

Eames was through the door as soon as Arthur opened it. "We brought a surprise," he said, promptly stepping past Arthur into the kitchen. Arthur turned his attention back to the doorway.

"Hey, Arthur," Micah said. He indicated the young woman next to him. "This is my sister, Bethany Harper. Bethie, this is my friend, Arthur Zaleski."

Bethany was tall (Arthur was only an inch or two taller than her) and statuesque, all long legs, strong arms and thin waist. She had waist-length red hair, though hers was darker than Micah's. But their eyes were a dead give away that they were siblings, as they were the exact same shade of sky blue. Arthur ran through his mind and remembered researching Micah, and reading about his siblings: Bethany was now 20 years old, and studying Dance and Cello at Juilliard.

She smiled, the kind of bright smile that stopped traffic, and held out her hand. "Hello, Arthur. Micah's told me about you."

"That's disconcerting," Arthur said in response, shaking her hand. She laughed as Micah blushed.

"I'm not mean," he muttered. Arthur stepped aside and let the two in.

Ariadne and Eames were talking quietly in the kitchen, but both looked up when Arthur closed the door. Ariadne's eyes zeroed in on Bethany, and her eyebrows soared. She shot Micah a look.

"Oh, um, Bethany was headed uptown to Harlem, anyway, so I thought..." Micah mumbled.

Bethany took over. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude. I haven't seen Micah in a while, and I was hoping this could be my opportunity to corner him and make plans."

"Don't worry about it," Ariadne said, joining them. She held out her hand. "My name is Ariadne."

Bethany smiled again. "Ariadne? Wow, what a unique name."

Ariadne's lips twisted. "My mother is a mythology professor in Montreal. Ariadne was-"

"Greek," Bethany said. "She helped Theseus escape the Minotaur's labyrinth. Is that correct, or do I have my legends mixed up?"

"No, that's correct," Ariadne said, clearly impressed. Silence fell, broken by Eames clearing his throat.

"Well, I think I'm going to head to my hotel and catch up on my sleep," he said. "What are the rest of you up to?"

Micah shrugged. "My stuff's already at Beth's place, so..."

"You can hang out here," Ariadne said warmly. "I was thinking of making lunch." Everyone looked at Arthur.

He sighed. "I have to go shopping." Eames and Micah nodded in understanding, while Ariadne immediately headed to her purse. Bethany gave a small chuckle, and he looked at her.

"Sorry," she said. "You just sound so disappointed."

While Micah asked Bethany for the spare key to her apartment, Ariadne approached Arthur. She handed him a cell phone and her credit card.

"In case you need anything," she said softly, indicating the phone.

"I thought you were going to come with me?"

She looked sad. "I think... maybe that isn't the best idea right now. With your..." She tapped the side of her head, and he understood. She didn't want to cause him any more pain. He picked up his jacket, shrugging it on, rather than commenting.

"So we'll see you later, darling?" Eames called. Arthur rolled his eyes at the endearment, but nodded.

"Careful out there," Eames continued. "Not everyone in New York is as lovely as Bethany."

Bethany burst out laughing. "Wow, you're a piece of work." Micah snorted, and Arthur smirked, turning away with a wave of the hand, grabbing his hat (his head got cold otherwise) and opened the door.

He was on the street and trying to determine which way was his best bet when he heard the sound of heels clacking behind him. He turned around and was stunned to see none other than Bethany approaching him, rearranging her purse strap on her shoulder and biting her lip.

"Hey," she said.

He blinked. "Hi."

"Um, well, I was thinking..." She sighed. "You're new to New York, right? Micah said you live in Paris." He wasn't sure that statement was so accurate these days, but rather than delving into that, he nodded. Bethany beamed. "Shit, that's so cool. Um, anyway, I was thinking... If you need any help, like a push in the right direction... I've lived here for a couple years, so I know my way around, I kinda enjoy shopping, I mean-"

"Bethany," he said, interrupting her. "I'd appreciate the help."

Her grin widened. "Oh, yeah! Great. Um... Let's start walking."

They headed down the street, passing tourists and food carts before Bethany spoke again.

"So, um... What kind of style are you looking for?"

"Not jeans," Arthur said immediately. "Definitely not this... casual."

She stared. "_Really_?" When Arthur looked at her, she blushed. "Sorry, it's just... I don't know many guys who would choose to look nice over wearing, well..." She indicated his jeans and t-shirt look.

"I'm not sure what Micah has told you," Arthur said carefully. "But I was in Russia for the past year. For... work. And I'm still waiting for all my things to get back to the States. I can assure you, I don't normally dress like this."

Bethany considered this. "Huh. Micah told me you're a researcher in Psychology..."

_He was?_ He dimly remembered Volkov telling him that he'd retired from dream espionage, and that he'd been in Paris... He'd always considered teaching... It suddenly clicked: there were only two professors he could fathom working for in Paris, and since Miles hadn't said anything, he could only have worked for Genevieve Durant.

"Lucid dreaming," he said. "Yeah, I worked at Paris Descartes University for a year, before going to Moscow. I worked in Los Angeles for a bit in 2011, which is where I met Micah."

She nodded. "That's right. Micah really loved that experience. He was so upset to go back to Harvard."

_Hmm._ "I enjoyed working with him. He's an interesting guy."

"He's wonderful," Bethany gushed. "I mean, he's my brother, so I have to love him... But I think that if we weren't siblings who'd grown up together, we'd be the best of friends." She broke off and nodded at a shop across the street. "Let's try there first."

Shopping with Bethany wasn't nearly as awkward as Arthur had anticipated. She was polite, funny and excellent at making small talk. She asked him about his life, and he found himself actually being honest, telling her about growing up in California, that he also went to Harvard, this his father died when he was a child, that'd he'd traveled and lived all around the world due to his work.

"I'm so jealous," Bethany said as Arthur tried on shoes. "I've only ever lived in Houston and New York-the latter being fabulous, of course-but I'm dying to live somewhere out of the country. I want to study abroad next year."

"Well, if you wind up in Paris, I could probably help you out," Arthur found himself saying. "With finding an apartment, where the best restaurants are, how to avoid tourists, the places to go out of the city..."

She beamed. "That'd be wonderful, Arthur."

He was alarmed to learn just how much weight he'd lost in Volkov's captivity. He hadn't been too concerned when Cobb had loaned him some clothes and they'd all proven to be too big-he and Cobb had never been the same size-but the clothes he'd typically worn before Russia were all much too large. And when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he was stunned at how skinny he really was.

But when he came out of the dressing room in a sweater and dark slacks, Bethany looked up from her magazine and smiled, letting out a long whistle.

"Looking good," she called, smirking. Arthur blushed and rolled his eyes, causing her to chuckle.

"What's with the buzzcut?" Bethany asked.

Arthur flushed. "Oh. Um... A drunken mistake." He eyed her. "Russian vodka does not screw around." She laughed heartily and didn't question it any further.

Several hours later, and Arthur decided he was done. He opted to call a cab, not wanting to traverse the subway with bags of clothes. Bethany went with him back to Ariadne's apartment, and helped him carry everything into the building.

"So how long are you going to be in New York?" She asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm staying with Ariadne right now... I'm not even sure where I'm going to go next."

"Not back to Paris?"

"Maybe," he said. "We'll see where work takes me."

They walked into Ariadne's apartment, to find her and Micah sitting on the couch, watching the evening news. They looked up when Arthur and Bethany entered, and Micah laughed.

"Holy smokes, Arthur, are you planning on outfitting a colony?"

"Micah," Bethany chastised as Arthur blushed. "Just because you don't appreciate fashion doesn't mean the rest of us don't."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Micah muttered.

Ariadne surveyed the clothes. "I'll find a place to put these," she said, disappearing down the hall.

Micah went into the bathroom as Arthur walked Bethany to the door.

"I guess I should probably go meet my friends," she said. "I had a fun time shopping with you today, Arthur. You're a really interesting guy."

He shrugged. "I try."

"I wanted to give you this." She held out her hand and Arthur held out his own. A folded square of paper dropped into his open palm, and he looked at her. She blushed. "It's my number. For the record, I'm _never_ this forward about anything, and I know you probably think I'm too young, but um, if you wanted to go out sometime..."

"Yeah," he said. "I'll give you a call."

He froze, stunned by his own sentence. What was he thinking-asking Bethany out on a date? How could he do that, with Ariadne, and all the baggage he had with her?

But Bethany was like a tranquilizer. Being around her didn't cause him any pain, and he didn't feel guilty when he met her eyes, when he shared a cab with her. He'd actually really _enjoyed_ hanging out with her today. It was refreshing, hanging out with someone who didn't know all of your secrets, and who didn't love you.

_And maybe_, a small voice in his head intoned, _maybe this will get Ariadne to move on_. He definitely didn't want to be mean or hurtful towards her, but maybe if she thought Arthur was pushing forward with his life, she would too. Then, when he inevitably succumbed to the disastrous death Volkov was steering him towards...

"Great," Bethany said warmly. "I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah." He smiled at her, and she smiled at him, and he wasn't sure how it happened, if she'd moved or if he had, but in the next moment, they were kissing.

It was a chaste, sweet kiss, that was indicative of everything he'd ascertained about Bethany and her personality. They both stepped back after several moments; Bethany's face was bright red.

"Wow," she muttered. "I guess you really might call me."

"I will," he promised. "It was nice getting to know you a bit."

She grinned. "Yeah, you too. Have a good night, Arthur."

"Good night, Bethany."

He watched her walk back down the hall, disappearing down the staircase. Arthur stepped back and closed the door to the apartment, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts.

_This is certainly an unexpected development_.

He turned around, and all the warm feelings in his stomach vanished, replaced by cold dreading ice. Standing at the entrance to the hallway was Ariadne.

They stared at each other, and he had no doubt as to what she'd just witnessed. He opened his mouth to say something-_anything-_but couldn't think of a single word.

Instead, he watched her turn back around and vanish down the hall. The door to her room slammed shut.

**dun dun dunn... review please**

**next chapter is Regina Spektor (probably... subject to change) Micah's POV, Adam drops by, and Arthur makes a (surprising) decision.**


	16. Stranger In A Strange Land

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Last chapter got QUITE the response- ****_theonlyredhead_****: I'm sorry? hahaha ****_Guest_****: haha, I like your thought process here... hmm might have to wait at least a couple chapters for another A+A talk... ****_Kamiragem_****: aha! I see. I'm glad you enjoyed To Lose My Life so much to try the sequel! yes you are not alone about Bethany... ****_Yuumii_****: yeah, me too, but I hope it'll become (more) clear as to what Arthur is thinking. ****_Iole17_****: the process? what process? ****_Laura-xx_****: yay, getting better and better! yep, Arthur is a different person, I'm glad you got that! ****_danastarry_****: wowserz, talk about an emotional response there! hahaha. I'm pretty sure I googled Russian surnames and that one came up. I like it... ****_Eeyore08_****: I'm so happy you can (sorta at least) see why Arthur is doing what he is right now, you're spot on. But yes, very uncomfortable all around... we'll hear Micah's thoughts next... ****_In. Blue. 85_****: it's a very popular club! woo hoo, foreshadowing! yep, I never write anything without a reason... if only new Arthur could talk to old Arthur, I think you're right... _Nina_: ah man I hope this didn't keep you waiting too long... _PrettyPrettyPlease_: oh hey there! thank you, that is quite a compliment! I am eagerly anticipating your next story over here... _Knuckiducki_: yes, that is true! I don't write plot details without a purpose. I think I am the only one who sympathizes with Bethany haha... and yes, crazy amount of reviews! people are passionate, it's so neat _gina1276_: yes, I meant to! wooooo**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: poor Bethany! very amusing to see an overwhelmingly negative response for Micah's sister, since the reviews on Micah have been universally positive. Remember, guys: Bethany doesn't know what's going on. She doesn't know Arthur and Ariadne's history (yet...) because Micah's not the type of guy to discuss others' relationships with outsiders. Bethany is young (my age, lolz) and Arthur is an attractive, sophisticated, older man who her big brother worships. Of course she's interested!**

**whew. anyways... chapter title from U2.**

Stranger In A Strange Land

Monday, May 27, 2013: New York City, New York: Bethany's Apartment: Micah

When Micah woke up, his first thought was that he'd died and been sent to Hell. Because surely there was no other explanation for how unbelievably _hot_ it felt out.

He sat up, throwing aside the blanket he'd slept under, nearly falling off the small bed he'd slept on in the process. He felt icky, covered in a light sheen of sweat, his pajamas almost sticking to him. The sun was streaming in from a window directly onto his chest, adding insult to injury by blinding him. He winced and scrambled for his glasses, getting to his feet.

"Jesus," he muttered, throwing them on. Bethany's bedroom slowly came into focus and he took a moment to regain his surroundings.

The place was absurdly small, though Micah knew it was about the expected size for a New York City apartment, even one in Brooklyn. It was a two bedroom (Bethany's roommate for the summer had spent the weekend on Long Island, due back later that day; Bethany had slept in her bed, and Micah in Bethany's), connected by long hallways and a kitchen that could only house one person at a time. The "bathroom" (shower, sink, toilet in a six foot space) was just off the kitchen, which Micah had groaned over, but wisely didn't comment on. He knew his summer housing wasn't about to be any better.

His sister had made the best of the minuscule space she called her bedroom. The bed dominated the area, though she had a neat nightstand that fit a desk lamp, and she'd hung up abstract art paintings her friends at Juilliard had made, and indie band posters from concerts she'd gone to in the city on the walls, making the space her very own. Micah's suitcase was balanced precariously on her piles of shoes, under the rack that held her skirts and dresses, her shirts draped less carefully just above them all.

Now that he was upright and without the blanket, Micah was feeling much better. The air still felt stuffy, so he decided to leave the bedroom, shuffling out into the kitchen.

To his surprise, Bethany was already awake, pouring a cup of coffee, still in pajamas. She looked up and smiled at Micah.

"Hey, Micah," she said brightly. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please," he said. He wasn't one to drink coffee every morning, but after a wake-up like that, it'd never sounded more tantalizing. He sat at the two-person table as Bethany handed him a cup, and a box of Captain Crunch cereal right after.

That made him grin. "Hey, you remembered!"

She laughed. "_Remembered?_ Micah, I swear I've seen you eat Captain Crunch more times than I've seen my _face_. I'd have to lose my shit to forget that that's your favorite thing to eat in the mornings."

He chuckled mechanically, her words automatically reminding him of Arthur, who could probably be counted as someone who'd "lost his shit" yet had managed to forget many important things... He shook his head, clearing the somber thoughts from his mind as he poured himself a bowl. Bethany sank into the chair across from him and set a copy of _The New York Times_ between them.

Comfortable silence fell between the chair, broken only by Micah's chewing and the crisp sound of the newspaper pages turning as Bethany read through the Arts section. (Micah knew she always read it first, with a special eye on the Dance and Theatre news, before turning back to the Front page and reading through the bigger news section.)

"When was the last time this happened?" He asked. "You know-just you and me, eating together."

Bethany considered this, tucking a long strand of red hair behind her ear. "Hmm. Maybe... last summer? When mom and dad were at work, and Ben was with friends, and we decided to go see the new Batman movie together?"

"Sounds about right," Micah agreed. "Been a while."

"Maybe it can happen more," she said hopefully. "Since we're living in the same city again. Believe it or not, but I kinda miss my big brother."

"I never thought I'd say this, but I fucking miss my little sister," Micah replied. Bethany laughed at the language, rolling her eyes.

Micah returned to his cereal. "So, what'd you think of everyone?"

"Your friends?" She clarified. He nodded, and Bethany considered her words. "They're... Nice."

"Oookay," Micah said slowly. "'Nice.' I'll take it; I've heard worse reviews."

Bethany rolled her eyes. "Well, I just met them, didn't I? How about this: Your Mr. Eames guy is quite the character. Very brawny, full of uncouth English charm. I was very amused at the way you flushed when he told me I have very lovely eyes." Micah blushed again, and Bethany laughed. "Ariadne seems really sweet. Quiet, very self-possessed and aware of everything. I think I'll really like her, if I get to know her more."

Micah nodded in assent to Bethany's summarizations. He waited for her to say more, but she only bit her lip, and was she... avoiding his gaze?

"And..." He waited. "What about Arthur?"

He was very curious as to what she had to say about Arthur. He'd told her a bit about him: that he really liked the man, that Arthur was one of the brightest people he'd ever met, that he was a researcher in Psychology in Paris... But what he really wanted to know was whether the crazy in Arthur was apparent to her. He didn't think he'd be able to get an impartial response from anyone else, considering how Arthur tended to avoid the general population.

"Arthur is..." She paused. "Interesting."

Micah snorted. "Uh, yeah. I'd say that's accurate."

"He's had a really unique life," Bethany continued. _Yeah, that's putting it lightly_, Micah thought. "And he's very polite, and very intelligent. He seems very confident and put together." _Wait what_? _In what universe is this version of Arthur "put together"?_ "He seems like a wonderful guy."

"I think so," Micah agreed. He opened his mouth to speak more, say something else about Arthur, when he noticed the light pink on Bethany's cheeks, and the way she was idly running her index finger over the edge of the paper. He thought of how his classes, and Arthur, had taught him how to study people to see what they were feeling._ Embarrassment? Anxiety_?

"Anything else about Arthur?" He asked, confused.

Bethany glanced up at him, her blue eyes hesitant. "I don't know... This is kind of awkward..."

"What?" He laughed. "What, do you think he's cute or something? I mean, yeah, I guess that makes sense, he's got a pleasant smile-"

"I kissed him."

Micah froze, stunned. _Okay... I didn't see that coming_.

"I..." He trailed off. "I... _What?_"

Bethany began to speak very quickly. "He kissed me back, I didn't jump him or anything like that, you know how weird I am about guys, I'm careful I swear, I never do anything like this, but I mean I gave him my number because he seems really amazing and I want to get to know him more and maybe he'll like me I think I could really like him, I mean you've said he's one of the most incredible people you've ever met, and I believe you, I do, seriously-"

"Whoa, WHOA, just a second," Micah spluttered. "_He kissed you?_"

She blushed even more. "Yes. So, I mean, you can see why I think he might like me too-"

"Too? Too?"

"Oh come on, Micah, you know him! I'm your sister, we're a bit alike-"

"That's not the issue, Dr. Freud," Micah interrupted. "Let's back up, recoup. So you kissed him. He kissed you...back." He automatically winced, reminding himself that Bethany was twenty, this was probably tame-_don't go there, Micah. _"And..."

"And I gave him my number, and he said he'd call me, and I really think he might. Well, I mean," she sighed. "I know sometimes guys don't mean that, but Arthur seemed really sincere, and he seems so honest..." She trailed off, probably perturbed by the clear horror on Micah's face.

"He said..." Micah swallowed. "That he'd call you?"

"Yes," Bethany said slowly. "And I know I'm your little sister, and he's your best friend, but doesn't that make it better? You like him, you think he's a good one, so-"

"That's not the issue." Micah fell silent.

Oh, shit. _Oh shit_. This was a disaster. Arthur was a potentially homicidal maniac (Micah hadn't forgotten how he'd viciously attacked him in the dream in Russia, how effortlessly Arthur had destroyed his father's sister) with a short fuse, a ticking time bomb. He was a man without a memory, a man certainly afflicted with some sort of form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a man fresh out of a torturous reality hell. And not to mention his past as a con, a soldier, Prisoner of War, a murderer, a thief...

And Bethany, young naive Bethany, 20 years old, studying Dance and _Cello_, for crying out loud, his baby sister, so pure and trusting... The only person he could think of who appeared more trusting and innocent than Bethany was-

_Oh. Fuck_.

Ariadne.

Bethany had no idea, how could she have had any idea? Arthur and Ariadne barely interacted, so how could anyone be expected to know they were a couple? Well, sort of a couple. Ariadne was madly in love with him, she carried the engagement ring he'd wanted to give her on a chain around her neck (he'd spotted it when she'd dropped her purse in the airport in Chicago on their way to New York, and when he'd knelt to help her gather her things together, it'd swung forward, and he'd had to ask, and she'd told him, trusting him to not say a word about it to Arthur or anyone else and he'd kept that promise), and she was absolutely determined to save Arthur from whatever demons he was trapped with, even if it meant going to hell and back for him. That was love.

But Arthur barely knew her. Micah wasn't sure what exactly his whole problem was, but he had studied Arthur enough to know that there were holes in his memory. If he had to guess, he would say that Arthur didn't remember much of the Browning job, though, with the way Arthur was behaving around Ariadne, Micah wondered if the memory loss was even more extensive than that.

"What _is _the issue, exactly?" Bethany's bemused voice snapped Micah back to the present.

He sighed, running a hand over his hair, the cereal forgotten. "Well, the thing is... Arthur and Ariadne... are sort of in a relationship."

Bethany paled considerably. "Oh my God. _What?_"

"Don't panic," Micah said quickly. "I said 'sort of.' They're... kind of... broken up."

"They're not together."

"...Kind of."

"Micah," Bethany huffed. "You're not making any sense. Am I some kind of other woman or not?"

"Look, you didn't know, so don't get upset," Micah replied. "And Arthur... Well... I'm not sure what he's thinking right now. But you should know that Arthur was... in an accident, in Russia. We all actually just got back from there; we went to get him."

Bethany stared. "You were in Russia?"

"Yeah. It's pretty neat, though the language-"

"Wait," she interrupted. "What accident? What happened to him?"

Oh, where to begin. Micah searched for terminology that would not cause Bethany to freak out even more. "Beth, Arthur is experiencing... memory loss. Amnesia."

"Oh no," Bethany said softly, obviously pitying. "That's awful. He doesn't remember his own..." She hesitated. "What was Ariadne to him?"

"His girlfriend."

"Oh, thank God," Bethany sighed in relief. "I was terrified you were going to say 'wife', or something."

_Almost wife_. "Yeah, they aren't married." _They may as well have been_.

"What am I going to do, Micah?" Bethany asked. "I feel like a terrible person."

"No, you aren't," Micah said. "You had no idea of knowing."

"So what do I do now?"

"Hell if I know," Micah grumbled. "I don't want to tell you what to do with your life, and I certainly don't want to interfere in Arthur's... He and Ariadne have to work it out."

Bethany looked disappointed. "Yeah, you're right. I just..."

"I know," Micah said. "And I want you to be happy. But even without the whole thing with Ariadne... Arthur... Arthur's got some serious issues, Beth. He has a traumatic past. I'd tell you about it, but, well, it's his story to share."

She nodded. "Yeah, I understand. I guess I'll just wait and see what happens."

Micah relaxed. "That sounds good. Keep some space between you two. Don't rush into anything."

"I won't," Bethany promised. "Thanks, Micah." She leaned forward and hugged him. Micah smiled, hugging his sister back. Moments like this reminded him that was still just a kid at heart, making mistakes and learning from them. He was thrilled that she still sought and trusted his advice; such a thing couldn't last forever, he mused.

She got up, dumping her cup into the sink. "What are you up to, today?"

He shrugged. "Not sure. I think I'll go see if Ariadne or Arthur want to hang out."

"Okay."

"You?"

"I have to go to the Bronx," Bethany replied. "I have a class to teach this afternoon."

"You know you're old when your baby sister is teaching children," Micah muttered. Bethany laughed.

* * *

Micah clambered up the stairs to Ariadne's apartment, still reflecting over Bethany's revelation. He was trying to figure out what Arthur's endgame was here. Arthur knew what Ariadne had meant to the old version of him, yet he still went and kissed Bethany. Was he leading Bethany on? Or Ariadne? Micah had never known Arthur to be intentionally cruel to a friend, and especially never to Ariadne. Sure, Bethany was pretty and smart and funny, but didn't Arthur think his life far too complicated, at the moment at least, to start up a new relationship? What on earth was he doing?_  
_

He reached the door to Ariadne's apartment and shook his head. He'd have to revisit this later. He raised his fist and knocked, and heard Ariadne's muffled voice cry "Come in!"

He pushed the door open, and spotted Ariadne sitting on the couch with none other than Eva Beckett, who had a cup of tea clenched in her slightly knotted hands. She gave Micah a small smile eerily reminiscent of Adam and Arthur's, and waved.

Micah gave his own pathetic wave. "Hi, Ms. Beckett."

She leveled her gaze at him. "Mr. Harper." Well, he certainly understood where Arthur had gotten his professional manners...

Ariadne spoke up from the couch. "Eva is here to take Arthur out for the day to the Museum of Modern Art."

"You can come too, if you'd like," Eva added, graciously.

"That would be great, I've never been there." Micah looked at Ariadne. "Are you coming?"

She frowned. "Um, no. I have some errands to run."

Micah studied her. Her explanation seemed valid enough, but something in her tone didn't ring true. Why did it sound like she was using her errands as an excuse? Why didn't she want to spend time with Arthur? He had no time to explore more possibilities, as Arthur appeared from the hallway, and his attention was immediately diverted.

Arthur was dressed in a neat black suit, complete with an equally dark tie. If it weren't for the lack of dark brown hair on his head, Micah would've believed he'd stepped into a time machine.

Arthur noticed him staring. "What?"

"Nothing." Micah looked away, catching Ariadne's eye. She gave him a little nod; she understood.

"Are we all set?" Eva asked, setting her tea down and picking up her purse.

Micah looked at Arthur, who nodded, before turning to Ariadne. "Still a no?"

She shook her head. "Not today. Thanks, though."

"Yeah, sure." He nodded at Eva to lead the way, and the three of them left the apartment.

To his surprise, Eva announced they would be taking the subway. He'd assumed she would want to take a taxi, which was cleaner and faster. He lagged a little behind as Eva walked fearlessly underground to the station, Arthur just ahead of him, hands in his pockets. They were both leggy and thin (Arthur alarmingly more so) and Micah felt awkward, clearly the outsider to everyone who noticed them.

Once on the train, Eva turned to him. "So, Mr. Harper, do you live in the city?"

He shook his head. "I'm originally from Houston, ma'am. I'm currently a graduate student in Psychology at Harvard. But I'll be spending my summer in the city, as an intern at a research clinic downtown, called the Mnemonics Institute."

Eva looked impressed. "Goodness, that's impressive. You must be a very busy man."

Micah blushed at the praise. "A bit."

"You know, Arthur went to Harvard."

He glanced at Arthur, who was listening to the conversation with interest. How much did Eva know, exactly? "Yes, I know."

"Just an undergraduate degree, but he studied Psychology too," Eva said. "Never want to graduate school. As far as I'm aware. Dear, _did_ you go to graduate school?"

"No." Arthur's voice was sharp.

"Hmm." Eva frowned. "I thought you might've, with that position in Paris and all."

"Where's Adam, mom?"

"Back in Los Angeles," Eva replied. "He had to go back to work." She turned to Micah. "Arthur's twin is a trauma surgeon at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles."

"Oh," Micah said softly. "That's really neat. My father is a surgeon."

"What a coincidence! What's his specialty?"

"Pediatrics."

Eva smiled. "How wonderful, he sounds like a good man. My Adam is a good man too. Very family-oriented. Much like his father." Micah noticed Arthur's spine stiffen, but didn't comment. Luckily, Eva didn't add anything else.

A transfer later, and the three of them were walked down 53rd Street, the Museum just ahead. It was sunny but cool out, and the place was swarming with tourists. Eva marched with purpose, large sunglasses blocking out the sun, while Arthur shuffled along next to her. He was behaving oddly distantly to Micah, and it was starting to annoy him: he really needed to talk with the man.

Eva led them inside, having ignored Micah's protests and paid for their tickets. Inside Micah was overwhelmed in a deluge of a hundred different languages, surrounded on all sides by what looked like a thousand different ethnicities. The place was electric, warm with exclamations and admirations. It was the perfect place for Eva to bring her son. They followed her around the museum like young children.

Micah realized Eva was no novice when it came to knowing art, and neither was her son. He listened breathlessly as they exchanged facts about obscure pieces the way most people discussed the weather. He mentioned how terrific it was to tour the MOMA with people so well-versed in art, and Eva told him that she had earned a degree in World Arts and Cultures at UCLA, and had since used it by teaching Art and History classes at a high school in Oceanside.

"Though I never used it until my boys moved out," Eva told him. "I was a stay-at-home mother even after my husband died; the military ensured we were well looked after. But I was lonely and bored living by myself, so I started teaching for something to do."

They neared the end of the museum, after several long hours, and Eva touched Arthur's sleeve.

"Dear, could you please get me a bottle of water?" She asked.

"Of course, mom." He got up and walked away, vanishing into the crowd. Micah watched him go, and then Eva turned to him.

"You'll take care of him."

Micah jumped at the harshness of her tone and turned to her, eyebrow raised. Eva merely blinked.

"He needs someone to keep an eye on him," she continued. "I trust Ariadne, but there is something very _wrong_ between them. I don't know what it is, and I don't believe I want to know. He does not speak of her like he did when he told me about her, and she does not glow when she talks about him like she used to. I am worried that if something more serious were to happen between them, that they would be too upset about it to remain friends, and one of them will leave. But Arthur cannot be alone. I cannot go back to California without someone promising me that they will stay with him."

Micah's throat was very dry. "Ms. Beckett..."

"Mr. Cobb did not tell me the full story," she continued briskly. "I am not stupid, and neither is Adam. We both know there is something more malevolent behind what has happened to my son. This hijacking... He is not just 'not here' right now; it is like he was never here to begin with." She turned to Micah, who was speechless. Eva was certainly just like her son; too brilliant for her own good. "I don't want to know how this came to be, for I am sure it would only break my heart. And I am tired of having my heart broken over that boy. Do not get me wrong; I love Arthur and Adam more than anything in this world. But I am an old woman now, and I have believed my son has been murdered _twice_. I can't bear anymore heartache. I don't think I would survive it, and that is why I cannot stay here myself to oversee his recovery. I did that once before, many years ago, after my son had spent half a year being tortured and ruined, and going through that was the most traumatic thing. Worse even than Eli's death. Because he is my son, and I could not help him."

She sighed. "Mr. Harper, I realize you have a bond with my son, and I implore you to use that bond well. I believe Arthur trusts you; or, at least, he used to. I trust you, more than Mr. Cobb and Mr. Eames and Mr. Miles, though I think he would do the job just fine, if only he didn't work in Paris- and even Ariadne, to not leave him. I want you to promise me now that you will see to it that Arthur is never left alone."

He swallowed. Her wide green eyes were so expectant, and... What else could he say? "I promise."

"Good." She turned away, letting Micah breathe again. "Thank you, Mr. Harper."

He was saved from responding by the return of Arthur. He handed Eva the water bottle and she took it, draining it easily. "I'll go the Ladies' room and then we can leave. Excuse me, gentlemen." They both stared after her as she walked away.

Arthur sank into the seat she'd vacated next to Micah. "I saw this sign, a minute or so ago... I think it was an art piece, it said 'Some days you wake up and immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong it's just the suspicion that forces are aligning quietly and there will be trouble."*

Micah laughed. "Art is weird. I don't get it."

"Neither do I," Arthur admitted. He looked at his hands for a moment, knitting his fingers together.

"Micah," he said softly. "In Chicago... do you remember Miles talking about a job?"

He did. "Uh, yeah?"

"Did he tell you more about it?"

"No," Micah said. "I wasn't interested. But Eames was; I think he told him." He paused. "Why do you ask?"

Arthur lifted a hand, as if to run it through his hair, but hesitated, probably remembering he didn't have any anymore. "I just, um... I was thinking about interviewing for it."

Micah stared. "What? _Why_?"

"Why not?"

"I can think of a thousand reasons why not."

Arthur sighed. "I might not remember everything clearly, but I do remember how to dream. It's what I live for." He glanced at Micah. "I think now's as good a time as any to get back into the swing of things."

Micah couldn't stop his next sentence: "Are you crazy?"

Arthur laughed, and Micah could see Eva coming towards them. Before she reached them, he murmured. "I don't know, Micah. You tell me." He got up and smiled at Eva as Micah slowly got to his feet, wondering if maybe he hadn't woken up at all that morning. He reached into his pocket and inconspicuously pulled out his compass as Eva hooked her arm through Arthur's as they left the museum.

The dial pointed due North, and with the sun setting on his left, Micah knew he was awake.

**review, please...**

***a Jenny Holzer work. it's a real thing.**

**and thanks for reading this. I got a lot of criticism this week regarding my professional writing and I'm feeling very dispirited and worthless with it all, so knowing people seem to like at least this weird little bit of writing is a very nice thought, especially with the nightmare that has been this past week.**

**next chapter: more Coldplay, we hear what Ariadne thinks of Bethany, a visit with Dr. Moroni and more of Arthur's "madness" manifests itself in an ugly way. I'll warn you now: next chapter will be VERY dark and VERY heavy.**


	17. Modern Romance

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**Reviewers get all the hugz- _theonlyredhead_: haha, I think I know what you mean. thanks for the reassurances! _In. Blue. 85_: yes, I think that's an accurate assessment. yep, poor girl is right... thank you for the compliments! it means the world to me, it really does. _Eeyore08_: yeah, that sounds about right. nah, I can't wait to right it, and I know what happens! _Laura-xx: _you're welcome! interesting thoughts about Micah... thank you for the kind words! very appreciated. _gina1276_: thank you! I will keep writing as long as you keep reading. bahaha I hope the longer chapters comment is a joke! I try to make each chapter at least 2000 words, though they vary extremely... _rcool98_: thank you, thank you. saying that you most look forward to Micah/Arthur moments after Arthur/Ariadne is a massive compliment. wow. _LeslieSophia_: thanks so much for the kind words. they definitely make me keep writing...**

**THANK YOU to everyone for the kind words. I wasn't looking for handouts, but you guys really cheered me up. xx**

**I was watching "Inception" the other day with a friend and we were talking about Arthur and I said something like "well, he probably learned that in the army" and she gave me this really weird look and I remembered that everything any of us know about the characters' backstories is all made up and that kinda threw me off a little bit and then I blushed and was all "never mind"**

**chapter title from the very cool Yeah Yeah Yeahs**

Modern Romance

Wednesday, May 29, 2013: New York City, New York: Co. Restaurant: Ariadne

"He did _what_?"

Ariadne sighed at Alison's indignant splutter. "Please don't ask me to say it again, Alison."

Alison dropped her piece of pizza back on her plate, her expression a mixture of shock and fury. "I just... I can't believe it. This is _Arthur_. Why would he do that to you?"

"She's pretty," Ariadne said with a shrug.

"No, _no_, no," Alison snapped. "She might be pretty, but you, you're fuckin' _gorgeous_, ma soeur."

"She's younger than me."

"How young?"

"Twenty."

"Shit, really? She's a baby." Alison changed tack, rolling her eyes. "But Jesus, Ari, you're twenty-four! You're not exactly ancient, or the age when some assholes hunt for trophy wives. Come on, Arthur isn't like that..."

"She's a dancer."

"Huh." Alison frowned. "Okay, I could see how that could be attractive. Tall, really skinny?"

Ariadne nodded. "But, like curvaceous."

"Ugh, I hate her even more."

That made Ariadne laugh, in spite of the constant pain in her chest that had prevented her from eating and sleeping well since _it _had happened. Even now, the Shitake Pie she and Alison were sharing looked barely touched, with Alison responsible for every piece save for the one on Ariadne's plate. Half of it was eaten, but now Ariadne was mostly sawing randomly at it with her knife.

"Look, I just..." Alison hesitated. "He's messed up, all right? He's really screwed up. I feel like you haven't even told me everything this Volkov guy did to him, but it already sounds freakin' awful. And I mean... Well, he doesn't remember you. So maybe he just doesn't understand how intense your relationship was. Is."

Ariadne had caved and told Alison everything Arthur had confessed to her about his state of mind as soon as their lunch started. As predicted, Alison had been full of exclamations and disturbed expressions, struggling to process this new reality (world, really; Ariadne had no idea what she even thought of the world of dream theft) and what it meant for Ariadne. But she was doing well, being the girlfriend Ariadne really needed to vent to right now.

"But I _told_ him," Ariadne whispered. "I showed him the shoebox. All those mementos of our life in Paris... Real _proof_ that we were together."

_But how can it not matter?_

_Because you'll be together!_

She shook her head, forcing Mal's haunted voice away. "He saw it all, and he saw my face when he told me what was wrong with him. I mean, for crying out loud, I kissed him! You know how crazy forward that is of me!"

"Well sure, I do," Alison replied. "But does he?"

"He remembers me from the job we met on," Ariadne said. "He thought I was shy then."

"Wait a minute. If he remembers you from then, then can't he just fall in love with you again?"

Ariadne sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I told you. He physically can't even be around me."

"Oh that's right." Alison took another bite of pizza and chewed thoughtfully. She jerked her chin at Ariadne's plate. "You should eat more, Ari."

"Could you eat more if you were in this situation?" Ariadne demanded hotly.

"Probably not," Alison allowed. "But starving yourself won't help anything."

Ariadne shrugged. "I don't know, it might. Bethany's pretty skinny, maybe-"

"If you finish that sentence, I am going to shove this whole plate down your throat," Alison growled. "She's just a distraction, okay? Arthur's using her to make himself feel better about a situation he's having a hard time understanding."

"He's being really mean about it!" Ariadne cried. "It's one thing to be just interested in someone, it's a whole other to start making out with them in your... old girlfriend's apartment!"

Alison reached forward and squeezed Ariadne's hand. "A distraction, honey. He's trying to make himself forget."

_He's already forgotten everything important_, Ariadne thought irritatedly. "Alison, I'm really upset."

"I know, Ari," Alison said softly. "Believe me, I do. I just... I don't see a way out of this. Arthur's gone bananas, and you're in love with the man he used to be. But what if-"

"No," Ariadne said sharply. "Do not say that-"

"-Someone has to, Ari, you must have thought-"

"There is no other option, okay?" She snapped. "He's going to be okay, and we're going to be together again. It will happen."

"I want that so badly, I really do," Alison murmured. "I'm just worried-"

"I have to go," Ariadne said brusquely. "I have an appointment with Dr. Moroni." She got up and fumbled for her wallet, but Alison waved her hand.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

Ariadne sighed, running her hand over her face. "I'm sorry, Alison."

Alison shook her head. "Don't apologize. Go see your shrink. And if Dr. Moron causes you to cry again, call me, and I'll show him the definition of manic rage."

Ariadne laughed. "Yeah, I don't think so. See you."

"Bye, Ari."

She left the restaurant, finding herself on the streets of Chelsea. It was a colder day than it had been as of late, and she tucked her jacket in around herself as she began the walk to the subway station that would take her back to Soho. She didn't even have an appointment with Dr. Moroni today, Arthur was the one who did; she hadn't needed to run out on Alison like that, but she couldn't bear the conversation Alison clearly wanted to have.

Alison didn't understand.

From the moment she'd met him, for Ariadne, Arthur had always been her endgame.

She'd fallen in love so quickly, and so very deeply. Arthur was her perfect match, her soul mate and her antithesis. He was dark and brooding while she was bubbly and light. He was forceful while she was shy, logic versus creativity. Every time she'd introduced a friend to him, the friend had been put off by the sheer superiority that he seemed to exude, and the friend fretted over small and kind Ariadne, convinced Arthur would burn her to ashes with his commanding energy. But then they'd seen how he looked at her, how his life seemed to revolve around her, and eventually they'd come around, understanding that they just _fit_, simple as that.

And now...

She had believed he was dead, and her life had grounded to a halt. She'd deluded herself into thinking their life together was their future. And it'd all gone up in smoke, taking her expectations and hopes with it...

_I watched him fall_.

And now he was back, in one piece, his dark hair gone but his auburn eyes the same as always, though more haunted and aged. He trembled and didn't sleep, he turned up the heat in her apartment even though it was practically summer, he drank coffee by the gallon. But he was still Arthur, which meant he was still hers.

She wasn't sure she would be able to handle losing him. _Really_ losing him. To another woman.

It wasn't something she'd ever really worried about before. Sure, she'd scowled and cursed under her breath whenever she'd gone out with Arthur and some woman would flirt with him, either thinking Ariadne was his sister or thinking she was much too insignificant to matter to him. He was always flawlessly polite, his upbringing and manners refusing to allow him to disregard or be rude to a woman, much to Ariadne's chagrin. But the moments were fleeting, because then Arthur would reach out and take her hand, or put his hand on the small of her back, wrap his arm around her waist, kiss her cheek delicately, look directly at her and tune out the rest of the world.

She reached the subway station and made her way underground to the platform, where she stopped and began to wait for the train. Her eyes caught on a poster on the opposite platform of an opera singer.

_"Car, sur les mots qui tu disais: Amour, serment, toujours, jamais, on danse...__"_

_His voice sung into her ear, his arm around her shoulder, clutching her hand. His breath smelled faintly of vodka and oranges and every other word was slurred. He stumbled and she wrapped her arm more tightly around his waist._

_"Arthur, you're drunk."_

_"That was a great concert," he gushed. "I liked her, didn't you?"_

_"She was wonderful. Why did you drink so much?"_

_"I love French singers," he said, ignoring her question. He hummed some more contently. The air was warm with summer joy, and Arthur was dressed in a light summer suit and she was in her favorite lace dress and heels that brought her right up to his chin. They reached a park next to the Seine, and even though Ariadne was carefully guiding them past, to a busier street where they could get a cab (drunk Arthur was not a good person to ride the subway with, she'd learned that the hard way, when he'd stumbled off the train at the wrong stop and she'd had to double back to get him) but Arthur broke free from her, dragging her along the gravel path towards the river._

_"Arthur!" She shrieked. It was past midnight, and the place was nearly deserted. "You know I get nervous out at night-"_

_He glanced back at her, still pulling her along with him to the water. "Ouais, mais ma chèrie, I'm here. I'll protect you."_

_She didn't doubt that normally, but she wasn't sure about drunk Arthur. "Arthur..."_

_They reached the river's edge and Arthur finally stopped. Surprised by the abrupt halt, she ran into his chest, nearly falling herself. But he caught her _(he always caught her) _and held her there._

_Ariadne sighed. "What are we doing?"_

_He leaned down, one hand on her back and the other clutching hers, and his lips brushed over her exposed ear. "Danse avec moi."_

_They began to dance slowly, and Ariadne pressed her face into his shoulder, inhaling the crisp and neat smell that was all him, combined with the cool air from the river and the night sky above them._

_"I remember when I first kissed you," he murmured, and she smiled into his shoulder. Arthur was a sentimental drunk, which she found both incredibly endearing and wonderfully amusing. (He also tended to speak more French, not that she ever minded that.)_

_She'd heard this story before, but humored him. "And how was that?"_

_"Mm," he sighed thoughtfully. "It was like I'd never kissed anyone before."_

_"You're very cheesy, do you know that?"_

_"And you're ruining the moment, love. Listen. I kissed you, and I knew. Right away, I knew."_

_"What did you know?"_

_He turned his head, pressing his lips into her hair. "That you were meant to be mine."_

_She scoffed. "Yeah? What did that make you?"_

_"Nothing."_

_This conversation had taken an unusual turn. She stepped back, affronted, and stared up at him. He smiled back, eyes dreamy and unworried._

_"I told you to listen, Ari."_

_"This had better be better than it sounds like."_

_He pulled her to him again, and she let him, though she remained confused and a little offended. They began to dance again, and Arthur's fingers lightly tapped her back._

_"While you were meant to be mine," he murmured. "I had _always_ been yours."_

_She couldn't help it; she laughed. "Oh, Arthur."_

_"I just said something incredibly romantic, and you laughed at me. My ego is wounded."_

_"Your ego is fine," she said. "Your superego, on the other hand..."_

_"I thought I was the Psychology major."_

_"Darling, I don't know what you are."_

_"You do." He stopped them and leaned back just enough to look into her face. Carefully, he touched his forehead to hers. His breath blew over her face again._

_"I'm yours," he murmured and before she could laugh again, he kissed her._

The train bursting into the station snapped Ariadne from her memory. She shuffled on, her cheeks a light pink and eyes rather watery. She took care to sit in a seat away from a window.

* * *

She'd expected her apartment to be empty, with Alison and Arthur indisposed at the moment, but when she unlocked the door it was to find none other than Eames in her living room, strolling back and forth, tossing an apple into the air.

"Good afternoon, Ariadne."

"Edward," she said surprised, setting her purse on the counter. "How did you get in here?"

He stopped and gave her an incredulous look. She sighed. "Right, right, you're a thief..."

"Damn good one too." He watched her as she walked into the kitchen, rifling through the mail she'd picked up. "Where's Arthur?"

"With my psychiatrist," Ariadne replied.

"You got him to go?"

"He didn't object," she said. "Made the appointment for himself and everything. It's almost like he's an adult..."

He frowned at her. "You're in a short mood today. What's got you bothered?"

"You mean aside from the fact that my boyfriend is a borderline madman who doesn't remember me?" She'd called Cobb yesterday and had learned that Arthur had told him (before her) what exactly was wrong with him. Cobb had wanted her permission to let both Eames and Micah know, and she'd given it. They'd all spoken yesterday, which meant the team was on the same page for once.

Eames grimaced. "Is there more?"

She hesitated. She considered telling Eames to shove it, to find something to do, maybe take out Micah somewhere. She thought about asking him what he was up to, what his plans were, what he thought would be best for Arthur now. But her heart spoke before her mind could catch up.

"What do you think of Bethany?"

Eames looked surprised. "Micah's sister? She's fine. Pleasant, smart. Like Micah, but feminine." He paused and added. "_More_ feminine."

She rolled her eyes. "Be serious."

"She's perfectly lovely."

_What was she like in real life?_

_She was lovely._

"Yes, I agree," she said quietly.

Eames studied her. "You don't sound so certain of that. Did she say something to you?"

His astuteness, accurate understanding of her facial expressions, reminded her overwhelmingly of Arthur. Arthur had been able to take one look at her face and know if she was happy or sad, or if she needed something in particular. Sometimes he hadn't even needed to see her; he'd just had a feeling. One time when she'd gotten a bad grade on an exam at school she had felt terrible, until she'd gotten home to the apartment to find a bouquet of her favorite flowers on the table and Arthur asleep on the bed, hooked up to the PASIV. She'd joined him in the dream, where he told her he had a feeling she wasn't having a good day, what was the matter? As soon as she'd told him she wasn't sure she was cut out to be an architect, Arthur had transformed the dream into the hotel she'd created for the Fischer job.

He'd made a show of looking around, taking in the sight. "I don't know. I've seen some pretty fantastic architecture in my time, and not one building has saved my life, save for this one."

"It isn't real."

"Not yet."

And suddenly, standing in the kitchen, looking at Eames, reminded so much of the old Arthur she loved so very much, the sentence burst from her before she thought about the consequences:

"He kissed her."

Eames became very still. "I... Sorry? Who did what?"

"Arthur." She swallowed. "Arthur kissed her."

"I..." Eames looked lost for words. "I'm very... surprised. But even more, I'm sorry."

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," Ariadne whispered.

"Quite frankly, neither do I, love."

She looked at her feet. "I wish you wouldn't call me that."

It was Eames' turn to look awkwardly away. "I know. I won't apologize for that, however."

"I know," she parroted. "It doesn't change anything."

"Does Arthur kissing another woman change anything?"

Ariadne flushed, forcing herself to raise her head to face Eames. He stood, the apple forgotten on the table, hands in the pockets of his jeans, very serious. He personified concern, and before she knew it, she was crying.

He went to her as she bawled, burying her face in her arms, leaning on the counter. He stood next to her and rubbed her back gently, in soothing circles. He didn't speak or anything; he let her cry, something she sorely needed.

She hadn't really cried like this yet, and at first she assumed (as Eames probably did) that she was just crying for Arthur's transgression, the knife he'd stuck in her back when he kissed Bethany. But with her eyes closed, she saw him again, her Arthur, standing next to the Seine and holding his hand out for her, his face lit with peace and adoration. And she knew what she was really crying for.

She was mourning him.

Again.

"He keeps _leaving_ me," she mumbled.

"I know," Eames whispered. His voice was uncharacteristically subdued, serious. "I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this."

"I'm so tired," she croaked. "I'm so tired of everything."

"I know, love," Eames continued. "It'll be okay, Ari. It'll work out eventually. It always does."

She lifted her head, looking up at him. He hadn't shaved in a while, nor gotten a haircut: he looked scruffy and unkempt, and she hated herself for liking it. The expression in his blue eyes was all sympathy and sorrow and it grounded her.

"I'm having a really hard time believing that."

He grimaced. "Yes, I believe you. And... Well, I feel like I talk about her all the time, but here's another tidbit about my dear ex-wife. When she left, I thought the world had ended. I thought life as I knew it was over, that nothing was ever going to feel _right_ again. I felt like I was constantly swimming, and failing." His hand brushed through her wavy hair delicately. "But guess what."

"What?" She sniffled.

"I survived," he said simply. "And here I am, five years later. A little tougher, a little fatter-" She snorted, and he cracked a grin "-But still essentially me. And there are times when I think of her and miss her something fierce, but they pass. You know what they say, love: what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger."

"You're very good at this whole comforting thing."

"I try."

She straightened, carefully guiding his hand from her hair. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"

"Oh, not at all. I think you're just beginning to realize, as I did once, that the love of your life might not be someone that you will spend your lifetime with."

"That's awfully wise," she murmured.

"Read it in a book once," he admitted. She laughed, but he continued: "Doesn't make it any less true, Ari."

"I know." She sighed, shaking her head. "Okay. Enough pity cries today."

"But they're my favorite kind."

She chuckled and went to the dishwasher and opening it, creating distance between the two of them. "Why are you here, Edward?"

"Well, I've been thinking, as I happen to do every now and then, and I thought I should really offer something in this whole quest to help Arthur. And with Cobb stuck in Chicago until his kids are out of school for the summer, and Arthur quite literally of two minds at the moment, I realized that I am the most knowledgeable dreamer you presently know. And I thought, 'Eames, you should abuse that position.'"

Ariadne paused in the act of putting the dishes away. "And how did that go?"

He reached into his pocket and held out a tiny slip of paper.

"Your Dr. Moroni is not the only dream expert in the city," Eames said. "There is a woman called Helena Cross. Originally from Exeter, but she's lived in the States for about ten years. She is presently retired, but once upon a time, she was the most successful extractor in the world. Miles learned from her."

Ariadne gawked at him. "Seriously?"

"Absolutely. Now I've never had the privilege to meet Ms. Cross, but I have a small number of contacts who have. One of them owed me a favor, and I called it in. On this sheet is an address where you can see Ms. Cross and tell her about Arthur and your problem. If there is anyone who can help him, if the help he requires is indeed connected directly with shared dreaming, then she will know."

"Oh my God, Edward-"

"I can't guarantee she'll help you," Eames cut her off. "Or even agree to see you. But I don't think it will hurt to try."

"This is _wonderful_!" She cried and raced to him, jumping into his arms. He accepted her hug warmly, chuckling a little at her enthusiasm. "I can't believe you got this for me. This is unbelievable, I'm so grateful. How can I repay you?"

He shrugged. "You don't need to. Arthur is my friend, and you are... well, also my friend. I want you both to be happy."

She smiled sadly, understanding the difficulty of that statement. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Ari. Did you want me to come with you?"

"No, thanks," she said. "I think I should do this myself. I appreciate the offer though."

He nodded in acknowledgement. "My pleasure. So, should I wait for Arthur to get back from his appointment so I can kill him?"

"I think Alison might beat you to it." She shook her head. "But no, please don't. He's not himself."

"Indeed. Still, I never got to lay into him for still being alive when we thought he was dead for a year and a half. I ought to hug the man."

"That would freak him out."

"All the more enticing," Eames said with a grin. "Oh, I almost forgot." He reached into his pocket and unfolded a sheet of notebook paper, giving it to Ariadne. She took it carefully and scanned it. It was the outline for a job.

"Who is Marc Esperanza?"

"My next employer," Eames replied lightly. "Got a very nice job lined up for the head of a major chain of banks in Argentina. Interested?"

She frowned. "Is this the job Miles talked about?"

"No. That job's being led by some guy called Kopp. I went and interviewed with him though. I think he would've liked to have me on, but the job would require at least a six month commitment. As much as I like Australia, I'd rather keep my options more open. Marc's an old friend of mine, and his job is easy peasy. Good money, too. Anyway, Marc wanted to know if I had any recommendations for other team members and I mentioned I knew the best architect in the world. Needless to say, he's interested."

Ariadne grinned. "I'm flattered. But Edward, I don't think I can go to Argentina."

"Arthur might like the sun."

She sighed. "I won't drag him around with me across the globe. Besides... We both quit the business so we could be together. This wouldn't help anything between us."

"Not even one more job? This one will be fun. You've never even been on a job where your life wasn't threatened."

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "I recognize that."

Eames looked at her sadly. "How about for me? One more job, with me."

Her breath caught. He looked so sad, so puppy-dog like... For a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in the picture he had painted. Strolling through the streets of Buenos Aires (she'd never been to Argentina), trying new, rich, authentic foods, learning Spanish by immersion, shopping in the marketplaces with Eames, who she imagined making her laugh by wearing a bright sombrero... star-gazing in the middle of nowhere surrounded by darkness, exploring the jungles and the mountains with him... And just like that, she saw herself dancing with Eames on the beach by the sea, him speaking Spanish in her ear, closing her eyes and smelling him, rum and mangos-

She snapped herself out of it, looking into eyes that were the wrong color.

"I can't," she murmured. "It'd be amazing, I know, but... I can't leave Arthur alone like that."

"I understand," he said softly. "I'm not surprised. Even so..." He dropped an ivory business card on the counter. "Should you change your mind, that card has Marc's contact information, as you already have mine. We'll be in Córdoba this August. Very hot, so if you do go, you'll want to pack your skimpiest clothes."

She snorted and slapped his shoulder. "You're one of a kind."

"I pride myself on it," he said. He walked to her door and she watched him. He paused and turned to face her again.

"You know you love me for it."

He winked and was gone.

**review, please**

**I know, not what you expected! this chapter ended up being a monster, so I broke it up. (so this story is at least one chapter longer than I planned). the next chapter will be a part two, with Helena Cross and that dark thing I warned about. (and Dr. Moroni is moved to the chapter after that.)**

**the song Arthur sings in Ari's memory is Edith Piaf's "On danse sur ma chanson"**


	18. The Scientist

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**reviewers are stellar- ****_Laura-xx_****: I love Drunk Arthur! very fun. and I have no comment regarding the Eames question... ****_PrettyPrettyPlease_****: uh oh, better brace yourself for this chapter then... and thanks, I'm thrilled you loved it! (and I'm inhaling every chapter of Hooded) ****_In. Blue. 85_****: haha I like Alison, glad you do too. and yeah, I understood! your English is very good. I'm thrilled the Ari/Eames moment worked for you, I was nervous about it ****_Lazarus76_****: awesome! thank you. ecstatic that you're still reading. x ****_Knuckiducki_****: ah, don't worry about it! glad you reviewed now... glad you're liking Eva and Alison. I'll try to not spoil anything more... only nine chapters to go! don't get a new dress, actually: I forgot that Argentina, being in the southern hemisphere, has a WINTERY summer and not a hot one. unfortunate mistake on my part...**

**SO MUCH RESEARCH. If I'd known the amount of time I'd spend just doing background research on psychology for this one chapter, I'd have dreaded writing it so much more...**

**chapter title from the song by Coldplay, one of my favorites**

**NOTE: TIME JUMP**

The Scientist

Tuesday, June 18, 2013: New York City, New York: Fifth Avenue in the Upper East Side: Ariadne

She felt awkward and out of place just looking at the elegant townhouse in front of her. Never mind facing the actual occupant.

Ariadne twisted her thin cardigan around in her hands, taking in the building before her with the eye of an architect. It was large for a Manhattan home, old brick that suggested a great age for the city, wide windows that let sunlight pour inside. The tiny yard in front was immaculate, a cherry blossom tree in full bloom dominating the sidewalk just outside the thin metal fence. Lilies lined the clean walk to the porch, which was framed by thick Greek columns.

The home suggested immeasurable wealth and power, and Ariadne had nothing to suggest she was ready for it.

But she had to be here.

After Eames left her apartment three weeks previously, she hadn't hesitated in calling the number he'd given her. A perky young woman had answered, which had nearly startled Ariadne into hanging up-Helena Cross had to be a very old woman, if she'd trained Miles-until she learned the woman's name was Eileen Cross. She was, in fact, Helena's great-niece.

"Yeah, I go to Columbia, but I live with my great-aunt," she'd told Ariadne. "Free rent, in exchange for helping her with the housekeeping and groceries and the like."

Eileen was chatty, right up until the moment when she'd asked Ariadne how she knew Helena. Ariadne had said she and Helena worked in the same business, and a friend had encouraged her to meet his mentor.

(She thought Miles wouldn't mind.)

So when Eileen asked who the mentee was so she could tell her great-aunt, Ariadne gave her Miles' name. Moments later, Eileen returned to the phone, a new note of perplexity in her voice.

"Ariadne Chopin?" She'd asked.

Stunned, Ariadne had confirmed, all the while thinking _I didn't tell her my name_.

Eileen told her that Helena was "eager" to meet Ariadne, and would brunch in three weeks' time be agreeable? Ariadne had said yes, which led to her standing on Fifth Avenue in the Upper East Side, Central Park at her back, just after ten in the morning on a Tuesday. Her mind was full of questions, and not just the ones concerning Arthur. She was curious as to how Helena had known her name after she'd given Miles', and what that meant for her impression of Ariadne.

_I won't get any answers out here_, Ariadne thought to herself. _Not to mention, this is something I absolutely _need _to do._

Things had been fairly calm for the last three weeks, though one thing had changed dramatically: Arthur's relationship with Bethany. Arthur had moved out of her and Alison's apartment following his appointment with Dr. Moroni, who encouraged the space to let Arthur begin to forge his own identity. Ariadne had been terrified at letting Arthur live alone, and had been relieved when Micah had stepped in. He needed a place for the summer anyway, he'd said, and Bethany didn't even have a couch for him to sleep on. Arthur and Micah presently lived in a studio apartment in Greenwich Village.

Ariadne hadn't made a fuss after that, trusting Dr. Moroni. She and Arthur remained in close contact, and she made it her mission to have him over for dinner frequently, alongside trips out to lunch and the movies and bookstores, all places she and Arthur would go to together in Paris. For his part, Arthur never fought her on any of it.

And then she'd learned, from Micah, that Arthur was seeing Bethany. And often.

As her brother, Micah had made it his mission to keep his knowledge of the relationship at the bare minimum, though living with Arthur meant not everything escaped him. He'd been watching television when Arthur had asked him what Bethany's favorite kind of flowers were, had watched Arthur get ready to pick up Bethany to take her to see the New York City Ballet, had observed Arthur listening to a CD from Bethany's favorite cellist Jacqueline du Pré. And then of course there'd been all the awkward instances when Micah had walked in on them kissing in the kitchen.

For Ariadne (and everyone else, she mused) the whirlwind relationship was unexplainable. What was Arthur doing exactly? Why was he embarking on a relationship so quickly, when he was so unstable? When he was getting _worse?_

That fact was unavoidable. Arthur's insomnia had reached new heights, and Micah reported being woken up in the middle of the night to Arthur screaming in the room next door. He was quick to irritate and grouchy nearly 24/7, though never with Bethany, whom he took great care to show his impersonation of the old Arthur. Ariadne often found herself on the receiving end of his rage and deep depression, though he wasn't physical with her.

Not yet.

She sighed, and resigned herself to the meeting. She stepped forward and pushed open the gate, making her way through the garden to the house.

She knocked once and waited, forcing her hands to drop the cardigan and be still. She'd dressed nicely for brunch, in a knee-length skirt, small heels and cream-colored blouse. Even her hair looked unusually well-kept, held back in the braid Alison had carefully corralled it into for her this morning. Ariadne wasn't one for going out of the way to dress for a stranger, but she knew this was one acquaintance she just couldn't afford to lose at this point.

At last, the door opened. A young woman, barely twenty years old with a shock of dyed dark blue hair, greeted her with a warm smile.

"You must be Ariadne," she said cheerily. "I'm Eileen." She held out her hand and Ariadne shook it.

"It's nice to meet you," Ariadne said nervously.

"Come in, come in."

Ariadne stepped across the threshold. The house was grand in its compactness, the floors a light marble and thick walls. She could see a dining room with heavy Oriental-style carpets, and a living room in feverish reds accessorized with an assortment of handmade pottery pieces. Paintings were hung everywhere, showcasing exotic places. Ariadne could only recognize Milan and Cairo; everywhere else was unknown.

"Auntie Helena is in the library," Eileen said. "Brunch is all set up in there as well. I have to get going, I have class in an hour, so I won't be joining you."

"Oh," Ariadne said lightly. She'd never assumed that Eileen would be present for her talk with Helena.

"I'll show you to the library."

Ariadne followed Eileen through the living room, towards the back of the house. Ariadne glanced up and caught sight of a massive crystal chandelier, and an ornately painted fresco in the style of Giotto.

They reached a set of French doors, lace curtains blocking the view inside. Eileen knocked once before pulling both doors open.

"Auntie, Ariadne Chopin is here," she called.

Ariadne's eyes immediately found the old woman perched in one of two forest green armchairs in front of an empty fireplace. The woman's hair was a light gray, though wispy strands told Ariadne it'd once been a lovely shade of strawberry blonde. She was dressed in what Ariadne recognized to be a _churidar_, an outfit of Indian origin; hers was various shades of purple that seemed to sparkle in the light when she moved, and her feet were encased in expensive-looking satin slippers. Her face was devoid of makeup, though it did not matter: her emerald green eyes were brilliant enough.

The old woman (she had to be pushing eighty years of age) set down her cup of coffee on a table laden with actual finger sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, pitchers of lemonade, cucumber water, and coffee, plates of toast and an assortment of jellies alongside a plate of various cookies. A large file holder sat at her feet.

"So I see," she murmured. "Thank you, Eileen. You'd best be going; I wouldn't want to make you late." She had a thick English accent, not unlike Eames', so Ariadne managed to grasp her words without much trouble.

"Thanks, auntie," Eileen replied. She shot Ariadne a dazzling smile. "Well, it was good to see you in person."

"Um, yes, you too," Ariadne stuttered. Eileen smiled once more at her great-aunt and left, leaving the library doors ajar. Ariadne looked at Helena, waiting for her to speak, but the woman remained silent, resting with her chin in her hands. She waited until they heard the front door slam close before she spoke.

"Have a seat, child. And help yourself, please."

Automatically, Ariadne sank into the empty armchair. She surveyed the impressive display of food before her, but could only make herself pour a glass of lemonade.

"Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Cross," Ariadne said cordially.

"Hmm." Helena let her hands fall and crossed her legs delicately. "It is I who should thank you, Miss Chopin. Stephen has told me much about you... I am quite curious."

"About me?"

Helena smiled. "Indeed. I don't think I've heard him speak of a student with that much reverence since Dominic Cobb."

Ariadne's head spun. "You know Cobb, too?"

"Child, who in this business _doesn't_ know Mr. Cobb?" Helena asked with a laugh. "Or at the very least, knows of Mr. Cobb. I happened to meet him many, many years ago... on his very first job, as a matter of fact, across the sea in Ireland."

Dimly, Ariadne recalled a memory of Arthur telling her about meeting Mal and Cobb for the first time.

"_Mal was my first real friend in Paris_," she heard his voice telling her quietly, one of his many secrets whispered over sheets in the dark of night. "_We became very close, waiting for Dom to come back from a job in Ireland_..."

"I see," Ariadne said, coming back to the present.

Helena tutted. "The poor boy. So much potential, wasted. But not surprising, considering what happened with his late wife... such a shame." She looked up at Ariadne. "Stephen talked of his daughter very often. I met her a handful of times, but I hadn't seen her for years when she passed. What a tragedy. Those unfortunate children... At least they know their father did not kill her."

"You know that?" Ariadne asked. She wasn't aware that the business knew much of Mal's death, especially that Cobb had been the main suspect in her supposed murder.

"Of course I do," Helena said. "I make it my mission to know the goings on in the business. I am very good at it." She swirled her coffee around in thought. "But what I don't understand, Ms. Chopin, is why you are here. I called Stephen after your request to meet with me, and he informed me he hadn't given you my phone number, nor, as far as he was aware, did you even know who I am. Mr. Cobb does not have my phone number, so I wonder..."

"A friend of a friend," Ariadne said quickly.

Helena cocked an eyebrow. "Quite the friend. I make it clear I do not like to be disturbed. I've been retired for almost eight years now, and your call is the first... uninvited one I've had since then."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Helena murmured. "Not yet. Like I said, Ms. Chopin: just why are you here?"

Ariadne swallowed nervously. "Has Stephen or Cobb ever told you about a man called Arthur?"

Her words had an immediate effect. Helena straightened, nearly dropping her hot cup of coffee. When Ariadne leaned forward to steady her, she waved her away, impatiently setting the cup down.

"Arthur," Helena repeated. There was a fire in her eyes that made Ariadne uncomfortable. She looked... possessive. "The only walking enigma left in this business. As technology has evolved to the point where one can barely step outside and not have the government know their every step, Arthur is refreshing. I have been _very_ eager to meet him since he first came on my radar, as just a whispered name, a look of awe in the eyes of the dreamers who worked with him. But he is a very difficult man to track down. I daresay impossible, as even I, able to observe and facilitate every dream in the world, have been unable to find him."

She stared very hard at Ariadne. "I will be frank: everything I know of Arthur is secondhand knowledge, largely from Stephen, though I have scraped together a few details." As she spoke, she reached down and flipped through the file holder. She unearthed a very thin file and opened it. Ariadne's eyes widened at the small picture Helena held up for her. It was a tiny snapshot of Arthur, casually waiting, eyes locked on a sleeping man hooked up to a PASIV at his feet.

"What is that?" Ariadne asked quietly, nodding at the file holder.

Helena smiled. "My personal files of every person ever involved in the business I... Well, for a lack of a better term, founded. A box of files that technically does not exist."

"You _founded-_"

"I was one of the very first lucid dreamers," Helena said. "I was a professor in Psychology at Columbia University, here in this city, the very school my great-niece attends. My work was... cutting-edge, to put it lightly. Have you heard of parapsychology?"

She could sort of remember Arthur and Eames having a short discussion during the original Fischer job, where the term was used. "A little."

"Parapsychology is, and I am putting it very simply, the study of the paranormal," Helena explained. "My research involved trials on telepathy, psychokinesis, and of course, lucid dreaming. I was the top expert on lucid dreaming in the States, one of the very first to understand what it was, what its potential was. However, you will not find my name in any books on the subject... the credit for the discovery of lucid dreaming belongs to one of my fellow Brits, a man named Keith Hearne. He discovered lucid dreaming in Liverpool, in 1978. But I knew here in Manhattan, in 1975. Why was I looked over? I have my suspicions. My superior professors were far from thrilled with my so-called findings... even today Parapsychology is still debated as a 'real' science, not to mention the difficulties I endured then as a premier female scientist...

"When the head of the Psychology Department at Columbia received a shipment of a very new, very experimental sleeping drug from a pair of Russian biologists, I was there as one of the first to test it in the recently patented device that is known as the PASIV. Many of my colleagues were frightened of what we discovered. The power of lucid dreaming, how easily it could be abused in the wrong hands, used for personal vendettas and the theft of money and other priceless treasures. While my colleagues shied away from using the PASIV and somnacin in a more recreational sense, I took it on my own. I made my own strain and launched my second career." She smiled. "Miles was one of my first students. My protégé, if you will. It is really thanks to Miles that the architectural side of dreaming is what it is today. You should share with him your gratitude that you have this opportunity."

Ariadne bit her lip, forcing herself to not tell Helena the truth, that the terror of shared dreaming was the whole reason she was here. Her mind was also struggling to comprehend Helena's believable but amazing story, and how she had no idea who one of the two Russian biologists was to Arthur...

"Of course, I could not run a whole new method of crime on my own," Helena continued. "Some of my students remained faithful to me, while others either fled from dreaming or took the technology to further their own enterprises. Stephen was one who left the fold, to teach Architecture. While I mourned his loss, I understood. This life is not for everyone...

"So some of my students brought the power of lucid dreaming to major corporations, the world's biggest militaries, or marketed it for private use to the world's wealthiest people. I continued my work as an extractor, with my own small team, advertising ourselves as the very first, and therefore, the most experienced. Needless to say, I enjoyed a fruitful career. I still consider myself to be the godmother of the business, and make it my mission to keep an eye on things, stay in touch with my key players..."

Her voice dropped off as she surveyed the thin file before her.

"I understand that Arthur was found by Mr. Cobb and his wife," Helena said softly, scanning the file before her. "He worked exclusively as a point man, and almost exclusively with Mr. Cobb. He was American. It is estimated he was in his late twenties when he was killed in Los Angeles."

There was so much about that last sentence that was incorrect. "You think Arthur is dead?"

"Ms. Chopin, I _know_ he's dead," Helena said airily. "See?" She held out a small stack of photographs to Ariadne, who took them numbly. She recognized, with bile in her throat, the Fischer power plant where the job had taken place. She shivered at a new sight: patches of blood at the bottom of what was, undeniably, an elevator shaft.

"October 20, 2011," Helena said with a sigh. "I was very disappointed to hear that he was dead. I'd hoped to meet him." She paused and looked at Ariadne, eyes slightly narrowed. "Why do you bring his memory up?"

Perhaps it was the word choice, but Ariadne snapped. "He's the reason I'm here. Arthur is very much alive."

Helena stared. "Excuse me?"

"He was... captured," Ariadne said softly. "By one of the Russian biologists you mentioned, who invented somnacin: Nikolai Volkov. He tortured Arthur for months, physically and mentally... He went into his dreams and upended his mind, his memory, his sense of self." She looked at Helena very seriously. "That's why I'm here. I'm here, because I need your help. I need you to tell me how to save him."

Silence fell between the two. Ariadne clutched her cup in her hands; her palms were suddenly very sweaty. Across from her, Helena's eyes were downcast, locked on the file before her, Arthur's rigid profile.

"He's alive?" She whispered.

"Physically," Ariadne confirmed. "Mentally, he is...unhinged."

"Why did Nikolai do this to him?"

"I..." Ariadne trailed off. "I'm sorry, but Ms. Cross... _Nikolai_?"

Helena got up surprisingly fast for a woman of her age. She walked around the table to the window, looking out to the backyard.

"I'm not proud of this," she murmured. "After I left Columbia, I visited Saint Petersburg, to meet with the Russian biologists. I found only Nikolai Volkov; his partner... Ilia Zaleski, I believe was his name, had left the Soviet Union. Nikolai was very interested in my work. He understood the biological side of shared dreaming, but the parapsychological side was unknown to him..."

And suddenly, she remembered Volkov's oral history of shared dreaming: "_The Soviet Union has a long and proud legacy of outstanding psychologists, forefathers and pioneers of psychology before it was even a recognized science. REM sleep was discovered in the early 1950s. A British parapsychologist claimed to have truly discovered the power of lucid dreaming in the 1970s..._"

Helena had to be the parapsychologist Volkov had mentioned.

"Nikolai and I worked together for several years," Helena said. "Pushing the boundaries of what was 'normal' in shared dreaming. Our experiments were... dangerous, borderline unethical. We were young explorers, but now I realize... There was no excuse for what Nikolai was doing. And then for me to not only abide it, but say it was in the name of science... At the time I believed it was all research, never to be used practically." She paused, refusing to look at Ariadne. "It was... It was years before I realized the personal vengeance he hoped to usurp with his new knowledge. I was so troubled to learn, some time later, that the second biologist who discovered somnacin, who'd then defected to the U.S. government was murdered in Moscow..."

"Volkov wasn't behind that," Ariadne murmured. "Ilia Zaleski was killed by the Soviet government, not Volkov..."

Helena turned to her sharply. "You make yourself sound like this is a subject you're knowledgable in."

"With all due respect, Ms. Cross," Ariadne said. "I think I might know _more_. At least regarding Ilia Zaleski, and Arthur."

"He's really alive, you say?"

"Yes," Ariadne confirmed. "He's here, in the city."

"You haven't answered my other question," Helena said shortly. "Just why did Nikolai torture Arthur?"

Ariadne grimaced. "You said that Volkov was aiming to accomplish a personal vendetta, and you were right in assuming it was against Ilia. But Ilia was killed before he could extract his revenge. So he turned to the next best thing: Arthur."

"Yes, Ms. Chopin, but what does Arthur-"

She broke off, and Ariadne could see the realization in her face. Ariadne reached forward and took a tiny sandwich, keeping one eye on Helena, who had frozen, one hand raised to her face.

"Ilia..." Helena swallowed. "Ilia Zaleski had a child?"

"Two sons," Ariadne murmured. "Arthur, and his twin brother. His brother is a surgeon in California, so Volkov couldn't exactly go after him. And really... anyone who knew Ilia would see that Arthur is truly his son. Volkov understands this."

"I... I can't fathom this," Helena whispered. "The viciousness of it all..." She looked at Ariadne. "Did Arthur know?"

"What?"

"Did he know who Ilia was, who Nikolai was?"

"I don't know for sure," Ariadne said. "But I think so."

Helena returned to her chair, still deep in thought. "Was it not by chance, then, that Dominic Cobb and Mallorie Miles discovered Arthur's potential? If Arthur understood the legacy he was inheriting...If he knew what lucid dreaming truly was before then..."

"He did know," Ariadne allowed. Helena stared at her. "But... Look, Arthur's past is very complicated, and definitely not a story I feel comfortable sharing. Not when he's barely shared it with anyone. All you really need to know at this point is that yes, Arthur is Ilia Zaleski's son, and that Nikolai Volkov destroyed him for it." Ariadne made herself stare directly into Helena's deep green eyes, steeling herself for her plea.

"None of this really matters now," she continued. "And it won't ever matter if I can't save Arthur. Please, Ms. Cross: you know what Volkov could do to him, you helped him learn how to torture people out of their minds. What I need to know is... _Will you help me bring him back?_"

"What is your stake in this?" Helena peered at her. "Why are you so desperate to save him?"

Ariadne blinked once. "He's my friend."

"A friend who has told you quite a lot about his very private past," Helena commented. She reached for her files and pulled out another, and Ariadne was faced with her own self. "You've only done two jobs, both with Arthur, Mr. Cobb, a forger called Edward Eames and a Kenyan chemist called Yusuf Muthui. Both had to do with the Fischer energy empire. This is unusually specific, Ms. Chopin."

"Cobb recruited me," Ariadne said. "Stephen Miles was a professor of mine at university, in Paris. He introduced us. Arthur taught me how to dream."

"Tell me more."

Ariadne stared at her, bewildered. Helena sighed.

"Knowledge," she said softly. "You must've learned by now that knowledge is what I crave. Think, what are we looking for when we extract information from the minds of the unsuspecting? Knowledge! Even now, you aim to save someone very important to you..." Ariadne blushed, but Helena continued. "By taking from me, the knowledge of how to."

"Arthur..." Ariadne twisted her hands together anxiously. "Arthur is..."

_Warm chocolate eyes. A halting laugh. Wide dimples, a smile that turns heads. Hands that can break necks and caress her own._

"Arthur is everything," she finished. "He means the world to me. He... He saved my life. I need to save his."

Helena shook her head despondently. "A romantic relationship in this world? That's quite daring. Especially considering how things turned out for your friend Mr. Cobb..."

"Yeah, well," Ariadne said hotly, her dislike of Helena growing by the second. "We fell in love. It happens. So, can Arthur be saved or not?"

Helena ran a hand through her light hair carefully. Her lips twisted together in thought, and Ariadne waited on tenterhooks...

Her reply was short: "Yes."

Ariadne gasped, letting out a breath she'd really been holding since she'd spotted Arthur in his cell in Russia. "Oh, thank God."

"Don't thank Him yet," Helena said shortly. "You clearly underestimate what saving Arthur's mind will require. It is the most harrowing, dangerous journey you will ever experience, without even a guaranteed success. And even if you save Arthur, you may lose your life in the process."

"How so?"

"You will need to enter Arthur's mind," Helena said. "And go very, very deep, to every single memory he possesses, the dark and the light. You will need to guide him back through these memories, through his whole life. You see, we are the composites of a million fractured incidents. Missing just one memory, no matter its seeming insignificance, would be catastrophic. Arthur may return as a far more different person, should he return at all.

"You could get lost," Helena continued. "Arthur is a very skilled dreamer, one of the best. His mind will be one of, if not the most challenging minds to search through. The moment he realizes he has an intruder, he will set up labyrinths and traps to catch you."

"What happens if he does?" Ariadne whispered.

Helena shook her head. "You are finished. You are not just dead, or lost; you are _gone_. Arthur would be annihilated as well. One cannot live with another person inside their head. It is beyond madness; it is just darkness."

Ariadne licked her lips nervously. "How will I know when I'm done?"

"The process is involved," Helena said. "I will need to teach you how to do it."

"Will you?"

Helena looked at her. "I have a price."

"How much?" Ariadne asked breathlessly. "I have money-"

"Ms. Chopin, have you not been listening to me at all?" Helena asked shortly. "Look around you. I _have_ money. I have traveled, I have experienced once in a lifetime events, I have a family... There is nothing material you could provide for me. What I require are your dreaming skills."

"But I've only done two jobs-"

"Inception and a reverse Inception?" Helena asked, smirking. "Both done successfully... no amount of common extractions could compare. You are perfect for what I need."

Ariadne swallowed. "What do you need?"

"After I have taught you how to navigate Arthur's mind and stimulate his memories, and after you have attempted it on him," Helena said. "You will come with me to Russia, where together, we will kill Nikolai." She ignored Ariadne's look of horror and continued, "After that has been done, you will accompany me to my hometown of Exeter, in England, where you will use the stimulation method you used on Arthur to walk me through my memories. Then you will inject me with a lethal dose of somnacin and let me dream until my death."

Silence fell between the two following Helena's demands. Ariadne felt numb, shocked, and terrified all at once. Helena seemed to gather as much.

"I am an old woman," she said warmly. "And I am ready to move on. Assisted Euthanasia is illegal here in the United States, and I do not want to die here anyway. I would much rather die at home, an old woman in my bed, surrounded by my happiest memories and dreams. To do so would require outside help, and as my family does not know the illegal side of my career, I need to bring someone in. With your advanced knowledge of dreaming, and Miles' declarations that the dreams you design are outstanding, you are perfect for this.

"As for Nikolai..." Helena sighed. She looked much older now, betraying her true age. "You must understand why. It needs to be done, and we will be the only two people with the knowledge of how to use dreams to dismantle a person. When I die, you will be the only one left with the knowledge. I trust you to bury it."

Ariadne felt close to tears. "Ms. Cross, I... I don't know if I can do this..."

"If you want to save the man you love, you will," Helena said. "I sympathize with the great personal and moral cost of what I am requiring of you, but it is absolutely essential. Destroying Nikolai so he cannot pass on the terror he created is for the greater good of every dreamer. It must be done."

"You could hire an assassin, I don't see why it has to be me-"

"You know why it must be done," Helena murmured. "And Nikolai will see that he dies for a reason. For what he took from you. And how will I know that you will help me die if I don't have you with me for the rest of my life?"

Ariadne felt tired. "This is awful..."

"I know, Ms. Chopin. But do you agree to my terms?"

Ariadne looked at Helena, taking in the sight of an old woman with too much power, but an old woman who was one of two people in the world who knew how to save Arthur. And with the other person being the one who tortured Arthur out of his mind... The choice was clear.

She was going to murder someone, to save Arthur. Even though she would be responsible for the death of the man who'd destroyed Arthur, she couldn't help but feel horrible.

It was still a murder.

Not to mention, she'd be helping someone commit suicide... And even if the suicide was desired...

In her eyes, that was still a murder too.

But what else could she say?

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Ms. Cross. I agree."

Helena reached forward, and the two shook hands. Ariadne pulled her hands away. She could almost imagine them soaked in blood.

"Very good," Helena said warmly. "Now that we're in a pact, I think you may call me Helena, dear."

* * *

Ariadne felt numb on the subway ride back to her apartment.

She couldn't believe what she'd agreed to, what the cost of bringing Arthur back was. No matter how many times she told herself it was necessary, that it was all in the name of the greater good, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was a soon-to-be murderer, her hands soaked in blood.

She reached her apartment, half in a trance, and pushed the door open.

To her surprise, Arthur was sitting on the couch.

"Arthur," she whispered. "How did you... Never mind."

He stood when he saw her, and she took in the sight of him. A light gray suit, hands in his pockets. His hair was slowly growing back, and his eyes were serious, but he was still Arthur. And she'd never been more grateful to see him.

Before she knew what she was doing, she'd sprinted across the room and jumped into his arms.

He was surprised, she knew, by the way he took a step back. His arms were hesitant in embracing her, and she knew why.

"I know I'm hurting you by being this close," she croaked, barely holding back tears. "But I just... _I need you_."

Ever so slowly, she felt his arms come around her. "Oh, Ariadne," he said, voice oddly choked. "I'm so sorry."

"I have to tell you something," she whispered.

"I have to tell you something as well."

She took a step back, giving Arthur space, and made a show of turning away, doing her best to hide the fact she was brushing away the tears that pooled in her eyes. She set her purse on the counter for lack of something to do.

"You go first," she said.

Arthur nodded. "All right."

She turned to face him, and he looked at her for a long moment before taking a deep breath and saying the two sentences that warped her world even more.

"I'm taking the job in Australia. And Bethany is coming with me."

**review, please. there are just nine chapters left, if you were curious.**

**and I know, I CHANGED IT AGAIN. this wasn't the dark part, believe it or not. I'm not sure when it'll come up yet. next chapter will include Dr. Moroni's thoughts on the situation and an Arthur POV that provides hopefully some insight.**

**if you've ever seen "Lost" I imagine Helena Cross to be played by the same lady who played Eloise Hawking, who is creepy/intimidating as HELL.**


	19. The Courage of Others

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**reviewers are the bee's knees- ****_gina1276_****: hopefully this provides some insight into Arthur's reasoning… but yes, poor Ari. ****_Lauraa-x_****: thank you! I try. I like your theory, I'm going to think about that… ****_Guest_****: lolz your "feels"… ;) you are not the only one with a love/hate thing going on, so that's good, I guess. might be waiting a bit longer there… ****_In. Blue. 85_****: hahaha good reaction. hmmm interesting thought to ponder… and yes, brave Ari is right. ****_Knuckiducki_****: I wonder what Bethany's endgame is? what do you think she wants from this relationship?… yes big moral price indeed. haha wait for the ending before judging your level of like/dislike… (but no spoilers sorry) I thought the summer dress comment was about how hot Argentina is… ****_PrettyPrettyPlease_****: yay! thank you. you are the first to adore Helena I believe… and the goal is never to make you want to shoot yourself ****_ALastDanceAtDawn_****: (cool name!) haha that's funny; every time Eloise came onscreen, I thought "oh no, shit is about to go down…" thanks!**

**shout out to _music. is. my. heroine _****who faithfully left reviews as she(?) plowed her way through "To Lose My Life" over the past week and is now onto this story… in one she talked about how she is glad Arthur has a friend in Micah and said "they have a nice bromance" and I just can't believe I've never made a joke about that before**

**chapter title from the song by Midlake**

The Courage of Others

Friday, June 21, 2013: New York City, New York: Dr. Moroni's Office: Arthur

"I told Ariadne."

Arthur looked down at his neatly folded hands, doing his best to avoid Dr. Moroni's gaze. He could only hazard a guess at what Dr. Moroni was thinking, but he'd caught a glimpse of his expression and saw astonishment and incredulity in the older man's light brown eyes.

"I see..." Dr. Moroni said. Arthur could hear his pen moving along the sheet where he noted their sessions. "And what did she say?"

_"I'm taking the job in Australia. And Bethany is coming with me."_

_He watched as Ariadne's face instantly transformed through shock, then confusion, then anger, then back to amazement. "I... What?"_

_He swallowed. "The job Miles talked about. I met with the extractor leading it, a guy called Kopp. He hired me, so I'm going to Sydney in three weeks, for at least six months. Depends on how the team does in preparation... And um, I told Bethany about it, and she was very excited for me, so I asked her if she wanted to come with me. She's never been to Sydney, but she's a big fan of the ballet. Her teaching job is over at the end of July, so once that's over, she'll meet me there and stay for about a month, until Juilliard begins again."_

_He'd spoken very quickly, believing it would be best to get everything out of the way as fast as possible. Now he watched as she began to process everything he'd just said to her, and every expression she'd just animated became one of hurt._

_"You're leaving me?"_

_"Oh, shit." He hadn't even imagined that would be her reaction. (Though in retrospect, of course that would be her reaction.) He'd expected rage, anxiety for his safety in the foreign country... Anything but her small voice sounding so rejected and just plain sad. "Look, Ariadne-"_

_But she'd started shaking her head._

_"No, no," she'd said fluidly, looking away. "I'm being silly. Sorry, that was tactless of me-"_

_"This whole method of presentation is pretty tactless of me, so I don't believe you can be considered the same," he said, hoping to get a smile from her. She still faced away away from him, refusing to let him see her face._

_"I..." She trailed off. "Look, I just had a pretty shitty day. Can we talk about this later?"_

_"Of course." He waited a moment, watching as she began to walk slowly towards the hall to her bedroom. "Didn't you say you had something you wanted to tell me?"_

_She stilled, still not facing him. "Um, yeah. Never mind though. We'll talk about it later. I have to go to bed. You can stay here, if you'd like, or..."_

_"I'll go," he murmured. He moved into action, walking smoothly to her door as she went to the hallway. He opened the front door and stopped, turning back around._

_"Ariadne."_

_She stopped, but she was in the hallway and he couldn't see her, save for her hand holding the edge of the wall._

_He spoke anyway: "I'm sorry."_

_She didn't say anything, but he knew she heard him. He watched as she continued walking, listening until her bedroom door clicked closed. Only then did he walk out._

"Not as well as I'd prefer," Arthur told Mr. Moroni, snapping out of the memory. "She was pretty upset. But she didn't let me comfort her, or try to make her feel better. She just walked away."

"Can you blame her?"

Arthur frowned. "Not at all. It's just, not what I expect from Ariadne. She's always been very forward and self-reliant and she isn't afraid to say what she thinks. This Ariadne was..." He trailed off. _Defeated._ "Different."

Dr. Moroni nodded. "Remember, Arthur. Ariadne has changed since the first job you met her on. She is not the exact same person, just as you aren't."

Arthur had filled in Dr. Moroni on virtually everything that had ever happened to him. It'd been difficult for him to do so, because as far as he was concerned, he'd only ever told Cobb his complete story. But apparently Ariadne and Eames, and even this kid _Micah_ knew. Dr. Moroni, for his part, had gone above and beyond to make Arthur comfortable, even signing a legal document that would prevent him from ever divulging any information of Arthur to anyone. Arthur felt validated, but had still been wary during the first several sessions. Now, almost four weeks in, he was becoming more and more open with Dr. Moroni on what he was thinking.

As a Psychology major, Arthur could understand what Dr. Moroni was doing and why. He knew that Dr. Moroni needed to know about his past so he could shape his opinions on why Arthur was the way he was, and what it could mean for his future. He had to be open about his current symptoms and situation so Dr. Moroni could accurately diagnose and subsequently treat him. So far, he'd diagnosed Arthur as suffering from anxiety disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depression, insomnia, severe instances of lacunar amnesia (the entire Browning job, his relationship with Ariadne), nightmare disorder (for what else could Dr. Moroni call his frequent death dreams?), and a pain disorder (the pain he experienced in close proximity with Ariadne). And then there was Arthur's abuse of caffeine in an effort to not fall asleep...

He also wondered if Arthur had a slight case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, something Arthur had always been aware of but had never wasted time worrying about, as he had bigger problems at hand.

In short, Arthur was a mess, and they both knew it.

Dr. Moroni adjusted his papers. "How is Bethany?"

"She's great." And that was the truth.

Arthur was surprised at how easily he'd grown to really like Bethany. She was intelligent, witty, fun, cultured, kind and patient: everything he needed right now. Not to mention the added bonus that they were completely new people, almost strangers, and Bethany had no reservations about him. Unlike Ariadne, she had no expectations of him, didn't know his every secret, didn't treat him as someone she used to know.

Between Ariadne, and Micah and Cobb and Eames... It was most welcome.

Bethany knew something was wrong with him, definitely. She'd woken up enough times to find him shaking in his sleep, or sitting on the couch with a huge cup of coffee and idly watching television. She'd observed him jumping when a car backfired and going out of his way to avoid small spaces. She'd seen his numerous scars and asked him about the unusual and appalling lacerations over his heart and abdomen, and he'd lied and made them out to be over a decade old, from his time in the army, when he'd gotten all his other scars too. She'd noticed the unusual tattoo on the back of his neck, and asked him what it said, and he'd lied and told her it was his father's name in Russian, when in fact it said something completely different.

_Remember._

вспоминать.

But what he... liked (still _just_ liked, he was resolute in that) most about Bethany was her unwavering acceptance of that. She was curious about his past, which he'd kept in layman's terms:

"_I was born on June 9, 1981 in Los Angeles. I have a twin brother called Adam, he works as a trauma surgeon in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and two kids. My mother is a substitute teacher in Oceanside, California, the town I grew up in. My father was a Russian immigrant, and he died when I was seven. I had my appendix removed when I was nine. I speak English, Russian, French and Arabic. I graduated from high school when I was sixteen. I joined the army when I was seventeen. When I was nineteen, I was in a convoy in Afghanistan when we hit a roadside IED. I was critically injured, spent months in a medically-induced coma and almost lost my legs. I eventually recovered, and graduated from Harvard when I was twenty-one. I'm a researcher in Psychology, with an emphasis on lucid dreaming. I've worked at universities all over the world, most recently in Paris. I met Micah in Los Angeles, when we were on the same research team._"

It hadn't been as bad as he'd expected, and he'd considered himself quite prepared for her questions, until-

"_Micah told me that you and Ariadne were in a relationship._"

How was he supposed to tell her about a relationship he had no memory of? He could only think of what Eames had told him, when he'd casually asked the man what his impression of their relationship had been.

Eames had looked at him and simply said: _"You were in a whole different universe, and you loved her like she was all the stars_."

Arthur had laughed, convinced Eames was messing with him. But then he'd caught sight of the forger's serious expression and realized he wasn't pulling his leg; that was honestly how Eames had interpreted his relationship with Ariadne.

So what could he say to Bethany?

"_We lived together in Paris. She was studying architecture at a university in the city, and I was working at another university, but one of her professors was Cobb's father-in-law, and I went to the university to see him and she happened to be there. We went on dates and we fell in love and I asked her to move in with me._"

"_Micah told me you had an accident in Russia and can't remember her, and that's why you're not together_."

"_After Los Angeles, where I worked with Micah and Ariadne, I went to Russia to work at a university in Moscow. And with Ariadne going back to Paris to finish her degree, we mutually agreed to put the relationship on hold, so I went to Russia alone. I was on a train, in the Eastern part of the country for a long weekend; but the thing was, I hadn't told anyone I was going there. The train was derailed. Freak accident. I hit my head, very hard, and woke up in the hospital, unable to remember the past year. This was October of 2011. In the mess of the accident, I'd lost my cell phone, and my clothes had gotten lost in the ruckus of the hospital, so I didn't even have my wallet. I had no idea what I was doing in Eastern Russia, nor where I'd been coming from; there were numerous stops on the train, it was impossible to guess... I decided to make the best of this unexpected series of events. I taught Psychology classes at a small college, completely in Russian, in a city called Khabarovsk, on the border with China. My situation was unsettling, but as far as I was aware, I wasn't missing anything. It was just going to be another job. I had no idea, but at the time, Ariadne, Cobb, Eames and Micah were trying to get in contact with me. I'd thought about trying to call Cobb, but I was enjoying the peace and quiet of Russia. I didn't know this, but I'd actually gotten quite close to everyone in Los Angeles, so they wouldn't give up that easily. Eventually, they managed to track me down. They came to my house on the Ussuri River, thrilled to see me. I looked at Ariadne and I felt like I was speaking to a stranger._"

"_Oh my God! That's awful._"

"_It is, and I feel horrible. We've talked about getting back together, but the timing isn't right. She's just started a new life in New York, and after being in one place for so long-which was still nice, don't get me wrong-I'm eager to do more traveling. In another life, we might've worked out, and the timing would've been perfect. But we're just not in the same place right now. It's going to be difficult, but she'll move on. As for me, well... I don't remember her, so I can't miss her_."

"_Still..._" _Bethany eyed him, looking concerned. "That's a pretty serious relationship you were in. You don't even want to try…?"_

_"Not right now," Arthur murmured. "It's too complicated. My memories can't come back, and I have a lot on my plate to worry about without the added burden of trying to recreate something that intensely personal. Please don't worry about it. I'd rather not talk about her."_

_"I can't believe you lived in Russia for a year and a half without talking to anyone."_

_"Well, I talked to my mother and brother... They didn't know Cobb or Eames or Ariadne at the time, so none of them had been able to call either of them to find out where I was." He'd smiled, shrugging. "Living in Russia was very nice. It made me feel closer to my father. I've gotten so used to speaking in Russian that for the first couple days after I left with everyone, I kind of had to re-learn English."_

_So many lies, half-truths, but Bethany didn't know that._

_"You're not serious."_

_"I am! My father taught my brother and me Russian as we grew up. It's impossible for me to know what came first, English or Russian."_

_"Say something to me in Russian."_

_"ты красивая," he'd said without hesitating. Bethany had smiled, though she looked confused._

_"What does that mean?"_

_He'd smirked. "Guess." And then he'd kissed her._

Back in the present, Dr. Moroni was nodding along with his single comment. "Very good. And she is definitely going with you to Sydney?"

"Yes. She's never been to Australia, so she's very excited. Can't wait."

"How about Micah? Does he have a comment?"

Arthur grinned. "Well, he's her older brother... So he has some reservations about me taking her away."

"Naturally..."

"But he's mostly fine with it," Arthur finished. "Happy, even. I asked him about it and he said he likes seeing Bethany and me so happy."

"What about Mr. Eames? And Mr. Cobb?"

Arthur shrugged. "I think they're both surprised that I'm doing a job again, so soon since... Provideniya." He and Dr. Moroni had agreed to use the name of the tiny settlement where Volkov had tortured Arthur, when referencing all that had transpired there. "Cobb is trying to change my mind. He's very worried about me. It's... A bit strange, since I used to do most of the worrying for the both of us. I keep telling him to relax a bit, that it's my decision, but he always throws my mental instability back into my face."

"Which you must understand?"

"Yes I do," Arthur said, resigned. "I think he's overreacting. I can take care of myself, I always have."

"That's true," Dr. Moroni agreed. "And Mr. Eames?"

"I have no idea," Arthur said with a laugh. "He was like Cobb at first, trying to dissuade me, but now he's very... supportive."

Dr. Moroni's pen stilled. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. I don't know why, but I'll take it."

"Is Mr. Eames joining you on the job?"

"No. He's going to Argentina for a different one instead," Arthur said. "I don't know anyone on the team in Australia."

"And you're comfortable with that?"

Arthur shot Dr. Moroni a look. "Yes."

"Very good." Dr. Moroni finished a note and looked up at Arthur very seriously, crossing his legs. "Have your nightmares improved?"

Arthur sighed. "No. I'm still dying in them. Every time I close my eyes..."

Dr. Moroni rubbed his eyes, setting his pen and paper aside. To Arthur, he suddenly looked like a very tired old man. It was quite unsettling.

"At this point," Dr. Moroni said gravely. "I am not sure what happens next. I am glad to hear the anti-depressants are helping your general mood, but in the long run, they will not matter if you cannot safely sleep on your own. I am worried that what happened in Provideniya has permanently altered your mind, in such a deep way, that I don't know how it can be fixed. My best guesses would be to order MRIs, CT scans, of your brain, in an effort to study it and perhaps see exactly where the damage is. If there is indeed any physical damage to be seen.

"Furthermore," Dr. Moroni continued. "I am... discouraged by your continued aversion to Ariadne."

"Because it hasn't let up?"

"Because it is getting worse," Dr. Moroni said gravely. "You are having difficulties stomaching-literally-being in her presence for longer than half an hour. And the pain… it is coming more quickly and with more force. Inexplicably."

Arthur considered this. "It is odd… I should be getting more used to her, not the other way around."

Dr. Moroni looked sad. "It seems that Mr. Volkov knew what he was doing."

"What should I do?"

"I do not feel qualified to answer that," Dr. Moroni murmured. "Whether you choose to leave Ariadne and your past life behind to embark on this new relationship with Bethany and go to Australia is up to you. What happens when that job is finished is also in your hands."

Arthur couldn't help rolling his eyes. "That isn't very helpful, Doctor."

"You are unique in a million different ways, Arthur," Dr. Moroni said. "Some good, some bad. The bad is here now: I can only counsel your present and adjust your medications. But I will say this: your future is wide open."

Arthur had just left his appointment with Dr. Moroni and hadn't even reached the entrance to the subway when his phone rang, startling him. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. The caller ID read 'Micah Harper.'

He answered. "Hello, Micah."

"Hey Arthur!" The younger man said cheerfully. "What's up?"

"Well, I just left Dr. Moroni's office…"

"Yeah, Ariadne said that's where you were," Micah said breezily. "What are you doing now?"

Arthur continued walking. With his slacks and light jacket, along with his phone pressed to his ear, he fit in with the downtown businessmen quite well.

"Not sure yet," he admitted. "Bethany is teaching down in Harlem, and I was considering visiting her…"

"Oh," Micah said. "Well, um, Ariadne and I are making this really great homemade lunch. Like, we've been trying out new recipes for hours. It's been eventful."

"I believe you."

"And Eames is having drinks with some friend, and Cobb is at Central Park with his kids, so we were wondering if you'd be our guinea pig. You're pretty cultured, you've tried a lot of different foods…"

Arthur paused on the sidewalk. "You want to have lunch with me?"

"Essentially… Yeah," Micah said. "Bethany could come too, if that'd make you more comfortable, since you don't really know Ari or me…"

Arthur weighed the pros and cons of lunch with Ariadne and Micah.

Cons: Spending a few hours with Ariadne, which would inevitably lead to him experiencing a headache, tiredness, ear pain, etc. Plus, who knew what condition or what food they were really making…

Pros: Learning more about Micah, and how he used to know him. Also talking to Ariadne and getting to know her a bit more. He would be around people, which was a good thing for him nowadays… And he was pretty hungry…

"All right," Arthur murmured. "That sounds nice. I'll come."

"Awesome!" Micah crowed. "Okay, we're at Ariadne's place."

Arthur nodded, approaching the subway station for trains going uptown. "I'll be there shortly."

"Right on. See you then."

On the train, Arthur wondered what exactly he had just signed up for. In his eyes, Ariadne and Micah were behaving like a pair of exuberant twenty-five year olds, and he presently felt like an old, tired man after that session with Dr. Moroni. Considering he was thirty-two now, he was fairly sure he couldn't be considered an old man by any standards.

Well, except for Bethany's friends. At least he looked younger…

Sometimes. Not when he was dreaming, not when he experienced a panic attack, not when his eyes betrayed him, letting his constant fear and paranoia be visible for all to see…

He finally reached Ariadne's apartment and had just raised his hand to knock when the door flew open.

It was Micah, beaming, and wearing a flowery apron. "Hey, Arthur!"

"Micah," Arthur said calmly. He stepped inside and was immediately overwhelmed by an assortment of smells. A creamy sauce, peppers, fried meats, garlic, expensive cheeses…

"Smells… Interesting."

"Probably the best word choice," Micah agreed.

Ariadne suddenly appeared in the kitchen, having been bent down to pull a tray of garlic French fries from the oven. She smiled when she spotted Arthur awkwardly standing in the living room.

"Hi, Arthur."

"Hello, Ariadne," he said quietly.

"We're just about ready," Ariadne said cheerfully. "Go ahead and take a seat. Would you like something to drink? I've got water, cranberry juice, cabernet, Alison's white wine, coffee, tea…" She shot him a look. "I don't think I should give you hard liquor, with your medications and all."

He nodded. "Water is fine, thank you."

Micah placed a glass in front of him with a flourish, as Ariadne bustled out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of flattened yellow rice interspersed with pieces of boiled potatoes, onions, turmeric, red chili and… mustard seeds?

"This is _kanda pohe_," Ariadne said. "It's a traditional Indian dish. I think. Anyway, it isn't too bad."

Micah carried a cold dish with meats. "Here's _polenta_, with _sopressa_ and mushrooms. Italian, obviously."

"White pudding," Ariadne said, with a tray of meat and oatmeal made into circular shapes. "Pork, suet, bread and oatmeal. Irish."

"Are you on a 'countries starting with I' kick?" Arthur wondered.

"Almost," Micah said. "But here's _blatjang_; a South African fruit sauce, poured on _frikkadelle._" Once he'd set the plate on the table, Micah sat down, in the seat next to Arthur.

"And last but not least…"

Ariadne carried a heavy pot, from which Arthur could smell garlic, saffron, fish…

"Bouillabaisse!" He cried enthusiastically. "That's my favorite French dish."

"I know," Ariadne murmured. "I made your favorite recipe, the one you got straight from Marseilles."

He stilled, unable to meet her gaze. "Did you used to make this for me?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "Not all the time, but on occasion… We'd eat this and then have chocolate croissants for dessert and then we'd go out to see a movie or go dancing or to a concert or just for a walk."

"It sounds lovely."

She smiled somberly. "It was wonderful."

Micah looked between the two awkwardly. "Well… I'm gonna eat."

Silence fell as they served themselves and tried the food. Arthur found himself to be quite impressed. The decorum left something to be desired, but the food was more than edible (for the most part) and the bouillabaisse was one of the best he'd ever tasted. He caught Ariadne smiling when she saw him taking second helpings of it.

"I think you both have a fallback career as chefs."

Micah snorted. "Thanks, man."

Arthur looked at him. "You sound incredulous."

"Well, I mean, just because we've only made one meal doesn't exactly quantify that-"

"No, you misunderstand me," Arthur interrupted. "Incredulous as in you can't believe I would say that."

"Oh…" Micah blushed, a light pink. "It's just… you sound like, you know, the Old Arthur. He would've said something like that to me. He used to tease me."

"I…" Arthur hesitated. "_He_ did?"

Micah nodded. "Yeah, absolutely. At first I wasn't too fond of the ribbing, because I thought… he… did it because he considered me dumb, but eventually I realized it was a form of endearment."

"Were we that close?"

Ariadne glanced from Micah to Arthur and back again. Arthur watched as Micah picked at the potatoes left on his plate.

"Yeah, we were," he murmured.

"This is not a reflection on you, but that's a little amazing," Arthur said.

"I'm pretty sure you didn't see it coming either, then," Micah said. "Our friendship… We had some rough patches, but I grew on you. I grew on Eames, too."

Ariadne smirked. "And me. I thought you were just some naive, innocent guy."

"You weren't wrong," Micah said. They chuckled together.

"What kind of rough patches?" Arthur wondered.

Micah's smile fell. "Oh. It took you a while to trust me… But I trusted you right away. I followed you everywhere, I listened to you, I went out of my way to talk and interact with you… But, uh, you almost killed me."

Arthur dropped his fork. "_What_?"

"It was my fault, and I forgave you and you me," Micah said hurriedly. "I followed you into a dream and I saw something I wasn't supposed to and you were really upset because you considered it to be a personal invasion at the highest level and so you dragged me to the ocean and dunked me in the water. Like what they did to you in Afghanistan."

Arthur stared. "Shit. I'm so sorry."

Micah laughed. "You sound more apologetic now than you did then." He paused. "I don't like apologetic-Arthur. It's weird."

"Even after that… we were friends?"

"Very good friends," Micah murmured. "You taught me everything about dreaming. You taught me to fight, how to read people, how to lose a paper trail, how to hide my footsteps in the digital world… You were my teacher in every way. You were kind of my best friend. I loved you like you were, at least. And I think you loved me, too."

Arthur looked at his plate, but Micah wasn't finished.

"Two days before… you died," Micah said softly, "you took me to Huntington Beach and we surfed, like you and your brother used to do. And we were lying on our surfboards and you told me to not pity you, but that you were ready to die, and that your biggest regret was not marrying Ariadne." At that, Arthur heard Ariadne give a deep intake of breath. Micah continued as if he hadn't heard anything.

"And you said you were glad that Cobb found me," Micah whispered. "Because he would need me. And I agreed, because Cobb really loves you and you were about to die for him; but you said Cobb wouldn't need me because of that. You said he'd need me because I was your replacement, his new point man. And I just…" Micah shook his head, smiling a little. "I got so mad when you said that. Because you were so fucking nonchalant about it all, about dying. And you told me, and I remember this part very clearly: '_Believe it or not, but I don't regret any of my time in the dream world. It's been the best thing my life could offer, and I wouldn't change a thing. I wouldn't give it up. Don't give up dreaming just because I died.'_

"And I lost it," Micah said harshly. "Because you were fucking about to die for me, for Ariadne, for all of us, and _you _were comforting _me_, of all people. But you kept saying that you were ready to die, that you were leaving a dark place for something better, that you _wanted_ it. And when we were leaving, I hugged you, and you hugged me, and I thanked you for everything, and you said, 'you're welcome' and, I can still hear your voice saying this, '_Everything is going to be okay, Micah_.'" Micah shook his head, looking at the ceiling as he spoke.

"And I think about that all the time, because I trusted you so completely, and so I when I got back to Harvard and you were gone and I couldn't talk to you anymore, I remembered that you told me it was going to be okay, so if it wasn't yet, it will be, and dammit, I'm still waiting for it to be okay."

He looked at Arthur. "You made dying into an art, Arthur. You were the best at it. I know all of this is really hard to comprehend, but if you take away anything from this conversation, please, let it be this: you made me a better person. I couldn't save you, but you taught me how to let go. And because of that, all I want for you right now, is I want you to be happy. Because you deserve it more than anyone I've ever known."

Micah finished his speech and relaxed, resting his elbows on the table and putting his face in his hands. Ariadne lightly touched his arm, squeezing it gently, while Arthur searched for something to say.

"You loved me," he said at last.

"I did," Micah confirmed, not looking up. "I think I still do. But it's hard, because even though you are him, you… aren't him, at the same time."

"I know," Arthur murmured. "I wish I could bring him back for you."

Micah grimaced. "I understand. But you know, the Old Arthur was ready to go, so I suppose it's only fitting that he gets to be at peace."

The rest of the afternoon passed more easily. Arthur helped Micah and Ariadne do the dishes, while they all talked about current events and music and films; anything that wasn't personally connected to Arthur's halved state of being.

He liked Micah, he really did, and he was starting to understand how his former self had grown to love him as a mixture of friend and brother. Micah was easy to get along with, easy to know, all kinds of warm and friendly. For Arthur, it was easy to see how he and Bethany were related.

As it started to get close to dinnertime, he and Micah both got ready to leave.

Micah shrugged on his jacket, paused, thought better of it, and took it back off. "Screw this humidity. I'm like twenty degrees more away from going everywhere without a shirt."

"Welcome to my world," Ariadne said dryly. Micah gave her a warm hug, which she returned.

"I'll talk to you later," he said. He turned to Arthur and offered his hand, which Arthur accepted.

"Thanks for hanging out with us," Micah murmured.

Arthur smiled. "My pleasure. It was… good, talking to you. Now that I understand you more... maybe I- we, can be better, now."

Micah's face froze for a moment, before an odd smile crossed his features. "Yeah. We will be."

"I'm glad to hear it," Arthur said. Micah's smile grew more pronounced. He lifted a hand in farewell to Ariadne and disappeared out the door.

Arthur picked up his jacket. "That was enlightening."

"You had a lot of faith in him," Ariadne said unexpectedly. "You told Eames to keep an eye on him after you died, help him out some. He never failed to be there for you, and he would've saved you, if you'd let him."

"Oh well," Arthur murmured. "It's in the past. Thanks for lunch, Ariadne."

He turned to go, but a small hand intercepted him, holding on to the door frame. He turned, confused, and found himself face-to-face with a determined Ariadne, her jaw set and her eyes locked on his.

When she spoke, her voice was very low: "Don't leave yet, please. We have some things we need to talk about."

**review, please**

**next chapter fun: it gets very very dark and angry and RAWR. what would you like Arthur and Ariadne to address specifically? I can't guarantee it'll happen, but I'll read the input: I don't want people to feel confused about why they're doing the things they are for much longer. **

**and if you've felt sad for the characters, well…**


	20. Passion

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**reviewers are out of this world- _N_: hello! thank you for the kind words. saying that you are just excited to see how I write Arthur + Ari more than anything else is a massive compliment; I do not take it lightly xx _gina1276_: good comment about Micah! I'll address that more in a future chapter but right now, there's an A/N below. and I just watched season one of Downton Abbey, it's freaking intense! _In. Blue. 85_: I don't think it's silly. read below for notes on Micah… _Lauraa-x_: yes, you've got it! that's what I think Micah is doing too. wow quite a lot of speculation there… _Guest_: you aren't the only one who misses old Arthur, I'm sure… _Lazarus76_: hi! no worries, thanks for dropping a line now _DAmnnn_ (LOL): yikes, that's probably the most depressing review ever. but thank you! means I'm doing something right, I think. _Knuckiducki_: I feel sorry for her too! note about Micah below... _music. is. my. heroine_: gosh you have so much faith that they're endgame! ;) thanks for reviewing so much!**

**RE: Micah's acceptance of Arthur and Bethany: I think Micah is very torn, because while he is quite fond of Ari, he absolutely loves his younger sister… Arthur has taught him to live in the moment and the moment he is now in has Arthur and Bethany happy together, so he can accept them more easily because of it. (There'll be a Micah POV in about three chapters, so that'll be discussed more).**

**chapter title from the little-known Nixons song. I spent way too long trying to pick the perfect song for this chapter...**

Passion

Friday, June 21, 2013: New York City, New York: Ariadne's Apartment: Arthur

Arthur watched as Ariadne closed the front door, taking care to lock it as he'd observed her doing on a regular basis. His bewilderment at her ominous words (no matter how polite she was in stating he should stay, he'd sensed an undercurrent of seriousness almost to the point of harshness in her tone) only increased when he watched her secure the door with the deadbolt.

"Where's Alison?" He asked, watching her as she turned around, walking past him toward the living room.

"With Ethan," Ariadne murmured, her back to him. "It's their anniversary, or something… Anyway, she shouldn't be back tonight… But just in case… I'd rather we not be interrupted."

Arthur didn't respond-_what could he say?_-so he settled for abandoning his post at the door, hanging his jacket back up on the hook. He was feeling uncharacteristically nervous, and his hands found the end of his tie, twisting it around in an unrhythmic pattern.

Ariadne gestured to the couch. "Please, sit down."

He obeyed her polite command, though he sat on the edge of the dark couch, resting his hands on his knees. Ariadne stared at him for a long moment, to the point he was becoming very self-conscious. He found himself lifting his hand and carefully flattening his already still hair. It seemed to be that small movement that snapped her out of her present trance.

"I…" She sank down into the cherry red armchair next to the couch, a small, wooden round accent table the only thing between them. Ariadne fiddled with her hands in her lap, apparently searching for words to say. He waited patiently.

Her next words caught him completely off-guard.

"Do you know who Helena Cross is?"

Arthur froze, his face completely still, a mask of nonchalance. He was aware that Ariadne was watching him, trying to gauge his reaction. He fought hard to not let the shock and unease he was feeling show through.

"Yes," he murmured.

"What do you know about her?"

He sighed. "Neither of us would be here without her innovation. She founded shared dreaming as we know it." He paused and added, "She's been trying to find me for years. I have no interest in meeting her."

"Why?"

"Because she's got a lot of sway on the industry," Arthur said carefully. "She is obsessed with power and knowledge, and she keeps tabs on every single extractor, forger, point man, chemist, architect, that works in dream share, illegal or not. That's a list I'd rather not be a part of. Apparently, you already know this about me, but I'm very… Private."

Ariadne nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I know."

"Why are you asking about her anyway? Who even told you about her?"

"Edward," Ariadne said easily.

Arthur blinked at her. "I forgot you prefer to call him by his first name."

"He's my friend."

"Yes, that's what I hear," Arthur said smoothly. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the warm camaraderie with which Ariadne, Eames, Cobb and Micah all interacted. It was completely unsettling to him; friendships weren't something he was accustomed to when it came to dream work. "But you didn't answer my question: why do you bring her up?"

Ariadne looked at her feet. "I met her."

"You…" Arthur's voice trailed away, he was so stunned. "You _met_ her? _Why_?"

Ariadne swallowed. "Because she's the only one in the world, aside from Volkov, who can help you."

"Shit," Arthur whispered. He ran a hand over his head, taking in her words. "Look, Ariadne, I don't know what Helena has told you, but you can't trust her."

She stared at him. "Why not?"

"She's reprehensible," Arthur murmured. "If she helps you, it doesn't matter what you've promised to repay her with, because it'll never be enough. She'll collect you, and have you in her back pocket forever." He paused and added, "Me as well."

"I think this time, it will be."

Arthur shot her a look. He opened his mouth to voice his concerns-namely, how was she sure that she was really able to understand who Helena really was-but Ariadne spoke again.

"She's asked me to help her die."

"What?" Arthur asked, his mouth dry.

Ariadne swallowed. "She's going to teach me how to bring you back… She said I shouldn't tell you how though, in case your mind unconsciously fights me. And in return, she's asking me to help her die the same way." She looked down at her knees and muttered something else, something that sounded suspiciously like "_helping someone else die too_" but Arthur was too distracted by her first words.

"She's teaching you how to…bring me back?"

"The old you," Ariadne clarified. "The one that loves me."

Arthur sighed, shifting on the couch. He wasn't sure how to tell her this, and resolved to do it quickly: like a bandaid.

"He's not coming back."

Ariadne's head snapped up, staring at him. "How do you know that?"

_There is blood all over him, staining his hair, dripping into his eyes. His mouth is choked and swollen, the blood coating his teeth, an unnatural hue of red. He can't even swallow it, and he's pinned down on the floor, and he thinks this is how he will die: drowning on his own blood._

_"Arthur… Why are you here?"_

_A sickening crunch, and he screams: where is his hand?!_

_"I don't know!" Arthur yells, panic setting in. He sees a machete raised over his other hand and he struggles to move, but the blood is still swimming down his throat. He closes his eyes desperately._

_"Say her name. Say her name!"_

_"I don't remember her! I don't know her!"_

_The sword is lowered, the weight on his chest alleviated. He gasps, inhaling deep breaths of air. His head pounds, his heart a throbbing reminder that he is, unfortunately, still alive._

_From above, Volkov's face hovers over his._

_"What do you know of her?"_

_His memory is fragmented, and he acts like a fisherman, sailing down into a chasm of nothing, casting his net, searching for a piece that contains her. He locates one, twisting his mind into voicing it._

_"Dark hair," he gasps. "Brown eyes… She's been stabbed, she's clutching her stomach. She's waking up… I tell her to look at me…"_

_And there she is, terror and confusion mixed in her face. He tells her that's Mrs. Cobb, and she yells past him, and he can't help but think-_

_Nothing._

_There is nothing more to think. The memory is gone._

_"What do you feel?" Volkov asks._

_It's like a knife is being wrenched through his skull. He closes his eyes tightly, those dark eyes vanishing, turning into a black emptiness. He's falling..._

_"Nothing," he gasps. "Nothing. I am nothing, and she is nothing."_

_"Good."_

_He can hear the smile in Volkov's voice_.

"Because I'm here, now," Arthur murmured, returning to the present. "And I don't remember him at all."

"Of course you don't," Ariadne said, her face relaxing with relief. "Helena has told me that you can't remember your old self, just like how you can't remember me. That doesn't mean the old you isn't there anymore."

He looked at her, _really_ looked at her. He could finally see her for what she was: a sad woman, trying to resurrect a ghost.

"He's gone," Arthur whispered. "I know you don't want to hear this, but… Volkov… Even if, on some crazy level, you could find those memories of you, if they are still in my mind…He's _warped_ them. Anything involving you, and me… It's broken, Ariadne."

She pursed her lips. "I refuse to believe that."

"You're going to have to."

Suddenly, Ariadne was on her feet, staring hard at him. He guessed she was trying to intimidate him, to come across as fierce, but she was so small to begin with, it was a little like being attacked by a corgi.

"Why are you so against this?" Ariadne demanded. "Why won't you let me help you?"

He shook his head, looking out the window. "You need to let go. You're only preventing yourself, and me, from moving on."

"Moving on?" She spat. "Like you're doing with Bethany?"

Arthur snapped his head back to face her. He was beginning to have a turbulent headache, but he needed to make something clear, even if that meant causing his blood pressure to rise.

"Yes," he confirmed. "I am moving on with Bethany."

"No, you aren't. You're running away with her."

"Is that not the same thing?"

"It isn't!" Ariadne cried. "You're running away to the other side of the world so you don't have to deal with me, with this life you _really_ have. We _love_ each other, Arthur!"

Arthur glared at her. "_You _love _him,_ Ariadne. You need to understand something, once and for all: _I am not him_. I do not love you."

"I know that!" She yelled. "I fucking know that. Because my Arthur, the one who loves me, would kill you for behaving like this."

"Maybe he would, but he's never coming back, so-"

"_Stop saying that!_"

"It's the fucking truth. This is _me,_ this is all that's left. Volkov stole everything else."

He got to his feet to face her, towering over her. His hands were clenched into fists, and he was visibly trembling. Someone was pounding on his head with a blunt object…

"I am going to Australia with Bethany," he hissed. "Because I like her, and she likes me, and she doesn't have any preconceived notions about me, from a life I can't remember. There is nothing complicated about being with her. It's very relaxed, very easy."

"Yeah, easy," Ariadne said, obviously coolheaded even in the face of him glaring down at her. "Is that what you really want? _Easy_?"

"Yes!"

"Nothing wonderful comes from easy, Arthur!" Ariadne shouted. "Nothing life-changing comes from easy! A relationship that lasts forever, that is deep and meaningful, never begins with something _easy-_"

"Open your eyes, Ariadne," Arthur growled. "_That's what I fucking want_. _I don't want a life-changing romance_."

Silence fell. They stared each other down, wide brown eyes focused and determined. In her eyes was confusion and bitterness; in his were anger and sorrow.

"What are you saying?" She asked at last.

He turned away, and began to pace on the soft carpet around the couch. He was aware of her eyes on him, and so chose his words carefully.

"I've heard from you, and Eames, and Micah and Cobb," he whispered. "Countless times, I've heard that I loved you like nothing else. I've heard that I gave up dreaming for you, that I sacrificed myself so you could live." He paused and looked at her sadly. "I heard you broke my heart, but that I died for you anyway. Because I loved you more than my life."

She looked miserable. "We broke each other's… We had a fight, and the miscommunication just escalated from there… But we made up, Arthur. We were fine, very much in love, when you died."

"I've heard that," Arthur continued. "But Ariadne… I can barely believe it."

"It's the truth, I swear-"

"I know, I don't think you're lying," Arthur murmured. "But you don't realize… I can't _fathom_ loving someone. I can't _imagine_ what it'd be like to love someone like Cobb loved Mal. Because it just isn't smart. It's dangerous, and it can be, as I proved… lethal."

Ariadne exhaled. "But… oh, god, Arthur, you can't mean-"

"I don't believe that we were meant to be together," he bit out. "I gave up dreaming, and dreaming is the only thing I know, the only thing I've loved in years. I _live_ for it. I always have."

"You lived for me," Ariadne whispered. "You lived for us, for our future-"

"And look where it got me!" He yelled. "It got me shot twice, waiting to die in an elevator shaft. And then it got me _tortured_, it got my mind _unhinged_, it gave me more mental illness than I care to share! It made me _die_. And then, now, it's making me _live_ in constant pain. I am barely alive anymore, and that is what loving you did to me."

Ariadne was crying now, silently, so the only way he knew was when the streetlights coming in through the windows caught her face, causing her cheeks to shimmer.

"You told me that you would never regret loving me," Ariadne whispered.

"That's all nice and chivalrous," Arthur murmured. "But_ I_ didn't say that."

_He's running, as fast as he can, pushing doors open as he goes. He knows he's in a maze, he's a rat in a maze, and the only thing he's looking for is a way to kill himself, to wake up or to die, it doesn't even matter anymore-_

_"You loved her, and she left you here!"_

_It's a bullet from a pursuer, through his brain, that wakes him up_.

"Ariadne. You need to consider that maybe, just maybe, it's better for the both of us if we are not together."

_Fire licks at his feet and he's scrambling, trying to drag himself forward but it's hard when blood leaks from his knees and one of his wrists is unnaturally blue. He's looking for some sort of water to save himself, or to drown himself, it doesn't even matter anymore-_

_"Why are you here, Arthur? What brought you to me?"_

_It's a thin knife that slits his throat and wakes him up._

"Better for you, you mean," Ariadne whispered.

"You too," Arthur said softly. "We ruined each other's lives brilliantly. You're stuck, unable to let go of a dead man, and you're bringing me back down to that level of madness and preventing me from trying to salvage anything good from my past life."

She blinked. "You don't think I can save the old Arthur?"

"I'm not sure," Arthur grounded out. "But what I'm saying is, if you want to preserve both our lives for the longterm… You shouldn't even try to."

They stared each other down, Ariadne blinking furiously, trying to dispel the unrelenting stream of tears down her face. Arthur could barely keep eye contact with her. In that moment, seeing her pain, he felt that he was a terrible person.

But he believed he was right: when something is dead, it should never be brought back to life. Such an act would only distort the original.

_Mal, a shade, attempting to kill him, her eyes dark with venom_-

_His father smiled at him from the darkness, unable to help him, leaving him to die in a jail in the desert-_

_Ariadne, leaving the warehouse, unable to hear his screams for help as Volkov approaches and pulls him back to a new hell_-

"I love you," Ariadne whispered. "And we were going to get married, and have children, and spend the rest of our lives together…"

"I just…" He frowned. He searched for words, but Ariadne seemed to have enough with his speaking, and suddenly marched towards him. He froze, certain she was going to kiss him-

But instead, she pushed her scarf aside impatiently and reached under her blouse, procuring a long silver chain. His eyes followed the chain to what hung on the end of it: a diamond ring.

"This is how much you loved me," she whispered.

He reached forward and gently brushed his fingers against the ring. It was warm, having been so close to her skin. His head was pounding at the proximity, but he swallowed, closing his eyes in an effort to find peace.

"The man who gave that to you," he murmured. "Must have loved you very much. For your sake, I hope you can find someone else who loves you like that…"

"He's right here," she mumbled. He felt her hand press against his chest, resting against where his heart beat.

"It's too much," he croaked. "I can't go through that again. I won't survive it."

_Volkov's voice yells her name: "Ariadne!"_

_It's a noose around his neck that wakes him up-_

_It's five bullets in his chest that sends him gasping-_

_It's falling through ice on an empty peninsula-_

_"Ariadne!"_

"I'm giving you a way out," Arthur murmured. "I told you, when you came to Russia to find me, that there was nothing left for you within me. I wish you would understand, I wish you would believe me-"

She stared at him, her expression hard. "What? Accept that you refuse to try for me, for us, and watch you go off into the sunset with Bethany?"

"That's not what's happening here!" Arthur said, frustrated. He stepped away from her and paced, rubbing his hands together nervously. His head was pounding, his heart racing, his anger growing… To give himself something to do, and put space between them, he walked into the kitchen. "I'm telling you, we're better off not being together. Maybe we were _never_ meant to be together. Maybe this is a sign, my not remembering-"

"You're shitting me," Ariadne snapped, staring at him in disbelief. She followed him, standing at the edge of the wooden floor of the kitchen, hands on her hips. "You don't believe in fate-"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Arthur growled, slamming to a stop. "When you're being tortured, twenty-four/seven, you're looking for anything, any sign that things are going to turn around. This is a _sign_. This is a reminder that I can't live like this ever again!"

Ariadne's tears turned to those of fury. "God _dammit_, Arthur, I won't let you give up that easily-"

"_Let_ me? You don't fucking own me!" He was on fire, fuming, raging at her presumptuousness, what was she doing to him, did she want to see him destroyed? "Maybe you used to, but-"

"_Arthur!_"

She yelled his name, her eyes wide, staring at him in terror. At first, he was bewildered at the abrupt change, until he followed her gaze and found it locked on his hand.

He clenched a carving knife in his right hand, with no memory of picking it up.

As soon as he became aware of it, his mind went into overdrive. Arthur could not explain what was happening, but he was pretty sure he knew why: he was looking at Ariadne, and he felt like every little bit of rage and fear he'd ever felt was geared towards slamming the knife into her chest.

He shook violently, and found himself seizing the counter with his free hand. His back was hunched and his breathing was coming in fast gasps. Try as he might, he could not get himself to let go of the knife.

He groaned, resting his head on the cool tile and waging war against the insanity that told him to murder the woman in front of him. "Ariadne. You need to go."

"Oh my god, Arthur, are you-"

"NOW!" He cried out, as a fresh wave of pure agony washed over his brain like a wave slamming onto the beach. He felt like his brain was literally crumbling into pieces, a voice in his head cajoling him to _do it, do it now, you know you want to, she's done this to you, you must kill her_-

"Ariadne," he moaned. "_Run_."

Arthur listened to the sound of Ariadne scrambling, darting out of the kitchen and racing to the front door. He could hear her struggling into her shoes, her breath coming into gasps, and the sound was like bleach pouring into an open wound-

He couldn't help but let out a whimper, and that pitiful sound gave her pause.

"Arthur…"

"I can't stop it, I can't stop it," he sobbed, his voice quiet and breath fast. He glanced up and saw Ariadne frozen, on the other side of the counter, one shoe in her hand.

He snapped.

Still holding the knife, he jumped up, sliding across the counter and landing in front of Ariadne. He caught sight of her face, all huge eyes and mouth open in shock and fear, and he lifted the knife to stab her, repeatedly, until she stopped breathing.

Ariadne caught his wrist at the last moment and dropped to the floor, spinning behind him. He stumbled, the momentum carrying him forward. He caught himself on the door and turned around, just in time for Ariadne to land a hard kick on the instep on his right leg. He cried out, his vision a haze of crazed passion, but moved forward, stretching his free hand out, and she grabbed his wrist but was unable to prevent his hand from curling around her throat.

She gasped, and her nails scratched his hand as she tried to get him to release her. When she saw the knife coming towards her, she abandoned her efforts to get him to let go of her neck and brought both of her arms forward, sacrificing air as she threw her fists at his arm, knocking the knife back, away from her face.

Arthur lifted her with ease, and practically threw her against the counter, releasing her. She wheezed, struggling to breathe again, but had to slide down to the floor when he turned to meet her. The knife made a metallic clang against the counter.

He pivoted, finding her scrambling back across the floor, trying to get to the door. Arthur dived after her, hitting the floor hard but not stopping to check his knees, which were surely bruised. He shoved her against the door, sitting on her knees so she wouldn't kick him, and caught her right arm in his left hand, slamming it against the door. He raised the knife and she feebly grabbed his wrist, pushing as hard as she could, while still trying to free her other from his grip-

Arthur looked at her face, his vision tinged with red, his head pulsating, drumming against his brain, and every instinct telling him to kill her, it was a life or death moment, her or him. But the look in her eyes gave him pause. He could see terror, shock, horror and…grief. His rational mind woke up at the sight.

_She isn't grieving for herself; she is grieving for me, for the loss of one she loved, who is about to kill her._

_I am better than this_, he told himself._ I am better than murdering someone who did nothing wrong. I have to be._

He couldn't drop the knife, he couldn't get over his homicidal rage… Something had to give, and he refused to let himself hurt Ariadne, not when she was so innocent and young, and he'd essentially broken her heart-

The answer came sudden, and the loss of self-preservation sealed his fate: he was officially unhinged.

For in one quick movement, he flipped the knife and plunged it into his own abdomen.

He cried out, falling backwards, collapsing on his back. He heard Ariadne's shriek of horror and a moment later, she was there, hovering over him, her hands reaching for the knife.

"Arthur, no," she sobbed. "Why did you do that?"

"If I hadn't…" He took a deep breath. "I'll be fine, it didn't hit anything vital. But I would've killed you, no doubt about it…"

She looked at him, and he could see fresh tears. "Oh, Arthur…"

"You don't deserve to die because I'm crazy," he whispered. "I was looking at you, and I felt like you were a demon, that killing you was the only escape, and I just, I _know_ that isn't true, I swear I do, but I couldn't stop myself…" He found her eyes, startled and scared and desperately muttered, "I want to be good, Ariadne. I'm trying to be better, a better person, I want to be redeemed for breaking your heart-"

"I need to call someone," she said.

"Cobb," Arthur instructed her. "Call Cobb. He can fix this." He gestured to the knife sticking out of his side.

She winced looking at it. "Arthur, I…"

"Do you see now?" He whispered. "It doesn't matter. Emotionally, physically… One of us is always going to get hurt, Ariadne. _Always_."

Ariadne took a shuddering breath at that, like he'd said something that had felt like she'd been the one stabbed. He pressed on.

"Let me go," he whispered. "If you love me, or any part of me that resides in this body, you'll let me go. I'm worried that if you don't… You'll kill me faster than you can save me." Tears were sliding down his face, less from the pain in his side and more from the pain in his head, a pain he couldn't fix.

"How can I leave you like this?" She murmured. He was lying on the floor, his hands gripping the knife in his side, and she was kneeling next to him, hand pressed against his bloodied stomach. "You need help, Arthur…"

"This isn't just memory loss," he said softly. "I wasn't visited by an intense desire to murder you because I can't remember you. I didn't stab myself because there was another reasonable option. I'm not suicidal, Ariadne. This is pure, unadulterated _madness_."

She blinked furiously, weeping now. "Oh my god, I can't stand this… I can't… I'm killing you."

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Bethany won't make you stab yourself…"

"Probably not," he winced, accidentally shifting and moving the knife. Ariadne froze, eyes wide. "But I may not love her like I loved you."

She laughed hollowly. "If it keeps you alive… But can you accept that? Not loving her like she was your other half?"

He grimaced. "Why wouldn't I? It's all I've ever known."

They looked at each other for a long moment, until Ariadne reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The light shimmered on her hand, which was red with his blood. He waited until she'd pressed the phone to her ear, waited until she gasped Cobb's name, to lay his head back against the floor and close his eyes.

**Review, please: do you understand why Arthur is behaving like he is? any lingering questions?**

**next chapter: Eames POV, Eames + Arthur have a chat and revelations abound**


	21. To Darkness

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**reviewers are hunky-dory- ****_Guest_****: "utter perfection"?! thank you! never stop with the compliments! ;) ****_gina1276_****: you're not the only one re-reading it… and I'm not making any promises! (it gets more intense? ugh I have to get the second season…) ****_Lauraa-x_****: yeah, pretty much… your summarization of Arthur is spot-on. some of Ari's thoughts ahead… ****_Lazarus76_****: hey thanks! yes, he can remember the first job and when he met Ari, but nothing about how he felt… associative members are very screwy indeed. he understands he loved Ari once, but thinks it'd be better for his future if he didn't. this is an Arthur whose whole life is dreaming. ****_Knuckiducki_****: yay strong Ari! She'll come back… thanks for the reassurance! ****_Eeyore08_****: we shall see… thanks for dropping a line ****_In. Blue. 85_****: this is one of my favorite reviews ever. everything you said was something I was aiming to make clear/understandable. ooh and bringing up Makena… super cool. very astute predictions… ****_PrettyPrettyPlease_****: haha yeah, a LOT of inner turmoil… ****_cinema therapy_****: HEY! I wondered where you'd gotten off to… that's probably my favorite chapter I've ever written. thanks for jumping aboard now! ****_Guest_****: you aren't the only one re-reading… yay I tried to make new Arthur noticeably different via writing, among other things… "go down with the AxA ship" hahaha… ****_music. is. my. heroine_****: "angstful" sounds about right… interesting idea...**

**BAD NEWS: this is not the chapter with Eames. it was going to be ridiculously long, so I split it up. You get Cobb's POV instead. GOOD NEWS: the story is now one chapter longer.**

**chapter title from the song by Mumford and Sons**

To Darkness

Sunday, June 23, 2013: New York City, New York: Ariadne's Apartment: Cobb

Cobb had barely finished knocking when the door was thrown open and he found himself face-to-face with a near breathless Alison Fletcher.

She exhaled in relief, looking at the ceiling. "Thank you, _God_."

"I came as soon as I could."

Alison blinked. "I know. Thank you." She paused and stepped back. "Please, come in."

Cobb walked inside and took a look around the place, as Alison closed the door. He surveyed the kitchen, the living room, the table and then down towards his feet. Though someone had obviously attempted to clean it, he could see a dark smudge and several drops around it, had stained the wood.

"I can't even tell you how glad I am you're here," Alison said, ignoring his preoccupation and acting like bloodstains on her floor was a normal occurrence. "I know you're one of Arthur and Ari's closest friends."

Cobb hesitated. "Yes."

"Good: Things have been a little tense around here."

"I suspect you're putting it lightly," Cobb commented, finally looking up. Alison appeared timid and shy, much unlike when he'd first met her.

She nodded. "Yeah. I mean…" She sighed. "I have a feeling I don't need to tell you what it's been like."

"Ariadne told you, then?"

"Sort of. I walked home to find her crying on the couch, and dried blood on the floor… Your friend, Mr. Eames, called the house to see how she was and I answered. He told me."

"Yes," Cobb murmured.

_One of the biggest shocks of his life was certainly the phone call that woke him up after two a.m. on a Friday night. He'd been just about to fall asleep when his phone interrupted him. He glanced at the caller ID, puzzled over why Ariadne could be calling him at this time at night, before it struck him: Arthur._

_Cobb picked up, his heart frozen in terror, certain the worst had happened, that Arthur had cracked and done something life-threatening, either to himself or Ariadne. He was enormously relieved to hear Ariadne's voice, shaken and tearful; until she told him why she'd called. He was sure he'd never run so fast in his life as the cab dropped him off in front of Ariadne's apartment._

_He had found Ariadne's front door opened and had raced through it, to almost trip over a pair of legs. He'd hesitated, taken a deep breath and steeled himself to see the immobile form of his best friend._

_And was rewarded with a much more tolerable sight: Arthur, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as Ariadne hovered over him, hands pressed to the point man's gut, where a thick knife rested._

_Cobb leapt into leader-mode and knelt next to Ariadne, opening the first-aid kit he'd brought along. He pulled out the added items for stitches._

_"Ariadne, you need to step back," he said seriously. When she didn't move, her eyes locked on the blood still dripping from Arthur's side, he got physical, trying to move her. _

_"Ariadne-"_

_"He's bleeding," she whispered, her breath coming in short gasps. Cobb realized she wasn't calm; she was quiet, but bordering on the edge of hysteria. "Oh my god, he's bleeding, Dom, what do I-"_

_Cobb turned to Ariadne, forgetting about Arthur for the moment. "Ariadne. You need to leave."_

_She froze. "What? No, I can't leave him-"_

_"Please. You're very upset, and it's keeping Arthur tense. I need him to relax." He paused and added, "Your being here is not good for him."_

_The words seemed to jog something in her. She slowly rose to her feet, and looked down at them._

_"You'll take care of him?"_

_Cobb nodded. "Of course. It isn't the first time I've stitched up Arthur."_

_Ariadne frowned. She stared at Arthur for several moments, before reluctantly moving into action. Cobb watched as she picked up her coat and purse and left, closing the door behind her._

_Arthur's eyes zeroed in on Cobb. "Thanks for coming."_

_"Yeah…" Cobb's voice trailed off. "What exactly happened here? How long have you been bleeding?"_

_"Half an hour, maybe… I didn't hit any organs," Arthur said softly. "It isn't serious."_

_"Serious. Just a little knife-" Cobb had broken off. "Wait, did you refer to yourself as the stabber?"_

_Arthur's eyes swiveled to the ceiling and he sighed._

_"I…" He hesitated. "I think I experienced an episode. It's called, according to Dr. Moroni, a mental collapse. Though I believe he never thought it would get this far…"_

_"You fucking stabbed yourself?" Cobb demanded in horror._

_Arthur sighed. "It was either me, or Ariadne."_

_Cobb began to put the pieces together. "A homicidal rage…" _

_"We were arguing," Arthur whispered. "And I just… I lost it. I attacked her. I was _this_ close to killing her, when my rational mind woke up. I stabbed myself instead."_

_"Good Lord," Cobb hissed. "Well… Good on you, Arthur. You made the necessary decision."_

Cobb returned to the present when Alison spoke.

"How is he?"

_"Your vitals are alarmingly skewed," Dr. Moroni said, looking at the screen of the machine that described Arthur's blood pressure. He picked up a light and shined it into Arthur's eyes. "Pupils are dilated, too."_

_"I didn't know you were also a general practitioner," Cobb murmured._

_"I went to medical school," Dr. Moroni replied. "I remember the basics."_

_He slid back in his chair and scribbled a quick note into the notebook in front of him. They were in Dr. Moroni's midtown office, and the psychiatrist was checking Arthur while Cobb watched._

_Dr. Moroni adjusted his glasses, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves. "Let's take a look at these stitches."_

_Arthur nodded, pulling the sweatshirt Cobb had found in Ariadne's apartment (he guessed it belonged to Alison's boyfriend) over his head and laying back on Dr. Moroni's cliché of a couch. Dr. Moroni leaned over him._

_"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "These look very neat. I get the feeling these weren't the first stitches you've done, Mr. Cobb."_

_Cobb's lips twisted into a thin line. "That's right, Doctor."_

_Dr. Moroni stepped back and Arthur sat up. Cobb was certain he would never not feel sick at the sight of Arthur's bare chest, which resembled a road that had been the scene of a terrible accident, scars and blemishes and now, a line of stitches on the lower right side of his abdomen. It didn't help that Arthur was still so alarmingly skinny from his time with Volkov; ribs and spinal bones obvious under his skin._

_Dr. Moroni paused and straightened, looking right at Arthur. His expression was so serious that both Cobb and Arthur stilled, Arthur in the act of putting the sweatshirt back on._

_"Arthur," he said intently. "This is going to be hard for you to hear, and I wouldn't do this if it wasn't necessary: but you need to go to a hospital."_

_Arthur's face remained impassive. Dr. Moroni took it as a positive sign and continued._

_"You need crisis psychiatric stabilization. You need 24/7 care, doctors who can assist you in any way, and the chance to get your medications worked out in a calm setting. There are a number of hospitals in the New York metropolitan area that you can go to for this type of care, but I recommend Lennox Hill, in the Upper East Side. I did my residency there, and can get you in easily, and then I will be able to visit you and see how you're doing-"_

_"How long would I have to be there?" Arthur's face remained calm, but Cobb knew him enough to recognize the panic that was building up._

_Dr. Moroni shook his head. "There is no 'would,' Arthur. You _have_ to go there. It's up to you to commit yourself voluntarily, of if I commit you involuntarily." He looked at Arthur, who was beginning to tremble. "This isn't bad, Arthur. This is a good step for you. This will get you good help, fast, and protect you and others."_

_"Why haven't you recommended this before?" Cobb asked, his tone harsh._

_"Because I didn't imagine Arthur's psychosis would escalate like this," Dr. Moroni explained. "It's now manifested itself in a most violent way. Even with his past, and Arthur being a special case…" He looked back at Arthur. "I am ethically bound to commit you to a psychiatric ward for immediate help."_

_Arthur's hands clutched the edge of the couch. He was staring straight ahead, back rigid. His eyes looked at nothing._

_Cobb approached him and gripped his shoulder. "Arthur…"_

_"I can't." Arthur's voice was a whisper._

_"Arthur, you must," Cobb murmured. Neither man looked at each other; Arthur kept his position while Cobb looked out the window at the dark, but still bustling, city. Dr. Moroni watched in thoughtful silence._

_"I know this isn't something you want," Cobb continued, still speaking softly. "But it is definitely something you need. You know what the right decision is here, Arthur."_

_Arthur didn't say anything for a long moment, as Cobb and Dr. Moroni watched him. Finally, he stood, not looking at anyone._

_"I need to get my clothes."_

"Honestly?" Cobb wondered aloud, Alison still watching him. "I don't know. I took him to Micah's to get his things, and then went with him to the hospital."

Arthur trusted him completely, unaware of the amount of hatred he'd felt towards Cobb; he'd only been told about Cobb's betrayal, which Cobb was certain he just couldn't understand. Because of that, he and Arthur were as close as they'd ever been. Maybe even closer, since Cobb now knew what life was like without Arthur.

What he knew for sure was he'd never felt so helpless as when he checked his best friend into a psychiatric ward.

"I came back here," Cobb told Alison. "But Ari wasn't here…"

Alison looked miserable. "She walked around all night; didn't get back in until after the sunrise. I got back from my boyfriend's, and…"

"I see," Cobb murmured.

"I'm so relieved you're here," Alison said sharply. "Because she's barely come out of her bedroom. She hasn't eaten anything since Friday, and I'm not even sure she's drinking anymore. I'm out of ideas here. I don't know what to do, she won't listen to me. Last time I tried, she threw me out of her room and locked the door."

Cobb nodded. "I'll do my best, Alison."

He left Alison in the kitchen and walked down the hallway towards the closed door near the end. He raised his fist and knocked, aware that Alison had followed him and was hovering next to him.

"Ari?" He called, pressing his ear to the wood. "Ariadne, can you hear me?"

He received no answer. He tried again.

"Ariadne? Sweetheart, I need you to open the door." He paused, waiting… Nothing. "If you don't open this door, I'm going to kick it in. I'm serious about this."

More silence. He sighed, straightening and preparing himself. "Step back," he warned Alison, who thankfully listened.

One big shove with his shoulder, and the door was knocked off its hinges. Alison gave a little shriek at the force as Cobb moved into the room.

Ariadne was lying on her bed, clothed in baggy sweats and wrapped up in a man's white dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The moment he saw it, he knew it was one of Arthur's shirts, undoubtedly one of the ones he left behind in their apartment in Paris.

Cobb only gave her a passing glance, as his eyes settled on the silver briefcase sitting beside her. A thin tube had been drawn out of it, and was attached to her wrist.

"What the hell?" Alison exclaimed. "Dom, what is-"

"It's called a PASIV," Cobb sighed, resigned. "It's the device we use to dream."

Alison studied the scene with apprehension. "Can you wake her up?"

Cobb crossed the room and sat down next to the bed, shrugging off his jacket. He reached up and extended a second line from the briefcase.

"Not sure," he said. "I don't know how far under she is, nor if she's using a sedative. I'll go in and take a look." Under Alison's watchful gaze, he carefully pushed the needle into his wrist.

* * *

_He was standing on a bridge, with elegant buildings on both sides that told him it was Paris. The city was lit up in a million lights, still bustling even though it was obviously late. The Seine was directly below, small boats chugging away, the sky pitch black above. Cobb looked around, searching for Ariadne among the faces of her projections. When he didn't see her, he began to walk._

_He slowly became aware that the sides of the bridge were adorned in a variety of padlocks. Some were ornately decorated, colorful, large and small. Every now and then he passed a couple locking one on the bridge, their faces aglow with joy. He immediately knew where he was: the Pont des Arts, famous as the bridge where lovers attached locks to the bridge, engraved with their initials or something other form of identification, and then threw the key into the Seine._

_Cobb stopped when he spotted one particular couple leaning on the railing. Making himself inconspicuous, he sat at a table just a short distance away, in the middle of the bridge. He could hear their conversation. _

_"…Paris can't be happy about this," Arthur remarked. He was looking over the railing, his back to Cobb, but even in the dark, Cobb would recognize him anywhere, his hair neatly arranged, wearing a dark trench coat. "This is basically an act of vandalism."_

_"Don't be such a pessimist," Ariadne said, glancing at him, standing exactly the same way, towards the river. She wore jeans and a brown jacket, a dark blue scarf around her neck and her brown hair fluttering in the wind. She was twirling something around in her hand._

_"What would it mean if the city administrators removed the locks?" Arthur wondered. "Would that mean you could never come back to Paris, lest your love end? Or would it end no matter where you were?"_

_Ariadne scowled. "I thought you considered the whole procedure to be silly. Now you're superstitious?"_

_Arthur looked at her and cracked a smile. "You know me, Ari. I worry about everything."_

_"Amen to that." Ariadne straightened and turned to fully face him as he continued to look over the railing. She held her hand out, and Cobb squinted. Something small rested in her palm._

_"Do you want to throw it in, or should I?" Ariadne asked._

_Arthur considered her question. "What's the protocol for this? If I throw it in, does that mean I'm more likely to love you forever? Or if you throw it in, does that mean you'll never love another man?"_

_Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Oh my god, Arthur. Stop with the passive aggression."_

_"I'm just reminding you of what you're committing to, love." He stepped closer to her and wrapped his arms around her, gently pushing her against the railing. He stood behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. Cobb got up and inched closer, standing against the railing a short distance from them, so he could still hear Arthur's quiet voice._

_"You do it," Arthur told her. "I gave up my career, so the only way I'd ever leave you would be for someone else, and we both know that's never going to happen. On the other hand, you could be called to work on some building in Shanghai…"_

_Ariadne looked at him. "You would come with me."_

_"Yes, but it's the symbolism of the move. I am bound to you, so of course I'd follow you anywhere."_

_"There is no middle ground with you," Ariadne muttered. "You are either completely uninterested in being romantic, or you go over the top by saying things like that."_

_"Just throw the damn key," Arthur said, smirking. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head._

_Ariadne surveyed the dark river below them. As Cobb watched, she bit her lip, drew back her arm and tossed something high into the air. It sparkled, silver in the light, as it dropped into the water. The three of them watched the small ripples of where it'd fallen._

_"That's it then," Arthur commented. "You're stuck with me. You can't ever leave me, because you threw a key into the Seine so neither of us can ever unlock the physical metaphor of our love."_

_"Being stuck with you forever?" Ariadne laughed. She held his hands in hers, still wrapped around her waist. "I think I can accept that."_

_Cobb had seen enough. He approached the couple, walking slowly. Arthur, ever so aware, even in Ariadne's memory, looked up._

_"Cobb?" He asked, voice confused._

_Ariadne's head snapped up. There was a moment where they stared at each other, and then all at once, Ariadne's face crumbled. The ground began to shake._

_Arthur looked bewildered. "Ari?"_

_"I'm sorry," she whispered. She twisted around in his arms, putting her hands on his face. "Arthur, I have to go."_

_"Where could you possibly be going?" Arthur demanded. "You can't leave me." Ariadne closed her eyes, and Cobb felt the ground falling away, taking them all with it._

* * *

He opened his eyes, staring straight at Alison, who still stood in the doorway. Her bemused expression changed to one of huge solace. She raced into the room.

"Ari!" She exclaimed, nearly tackling Ariadne, who was beginning to sit up. "Oh, thank God, I've been so worried about you-"

Ariadne shoved her away, criss-crossing her legs and looking down. Alison frowned, and looked to Cobb. He stood up slowly.

"Alison," he murmured. "Could you give us a moment?"

"Sure," Alison said slowly. "Ari, how does hot chocolate sound?"

She shrugged. Alison's despondence returned, and she awkwardly shuffled out of the room.

Cobb sank down onto the bed next to Ariadne. They sat in silence for awhile, Cobb waiting for Ariadne to speak first.

Her voice was quiet: "You shouldn't have woken me up."

Cobb looked at her, sadly. "I had to, Ari. You can't stay down there with him forever."

"No. I _could_. I _shouldn't_."

Cobb grimaced. "I know you want to, but… He isn't real. It isn't Arthur."

"It's my Arthur," Ariadne snapped. "That was _real_."

"A memory?" Cobb asked. She nodded, and he sighed. "Recreating memories isn't a smart idea, Ari. I've told you this before. I did, and remember what happened to me? I made the one I loved into a shade." He paused, and added, "It's a slippery slope. You could get sucked back in."

She picked at the blanket. "I know all of that. But I just…"

"You miss him."

Ariadne looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, full of desperation and a deep grief Cobb knew all too well.

"I miss him so much."

"I know…" He paused, as Ariadne's scornful eyes looked at him. "I know I'm being a hypocrite right now, but if anyone knows the consequences of dreaming of memories, it's me."

She glanced at him. "Maybe I want him to be a shade. Maybe I want that, so he'll stay with me."

"It's not Arthur," Cobb said gently. "He can't really interact with you…"

"But he does," Ariadne said with a moan. "He _does_. He holds me, his kisses me, he holds my hand, he smiles at me… He looks at me, and his vision… It isn't clouded."

"He's very sick," Cobb murmured. "He doesn't know what happened on the Browning job. He doesn't really know _any_ of us."

Ariadne looked skeptical. "Even you?"

"Even me."

"Show me," Ariadne demanded. She held out a tube, and Cobb reluctantly took it, even as Ariadne confidently stuck the needle into her wrist.

"Ariadne…"

"I want to see," she said. "Show me that I'm not the only one."

He sighed. "All right. I'll show you what happened after you left the other night."

* * *

_They appeared in one of the Lennox Hill Hospital admissions rooms. Cobb ambled towards a door and Ariadne shadowed him closely. He stopped just on the other side of the door._

_Arthur and Cobb were sitting in a waiting room. The television above was playing re-runs of "Seinfeld," not that either man was acknowledging it. Cobb looked calm, while Arthur was fidgety, drumming his knuckles against his knee. A small bag filled with his belongings laid at his feet._

_Arthur spoke abruptly: "You'll visit me?"_

_Cobb looked at him, and smiled sadly. "Of course. I have a feeling we all will. Me, Micah, even Eames…"_

_"Not her."_

_Beside the real Cobb, Ariadne grimaced. Her eyes were locked on the two men._

_"No," Cobb confirmed. "She won't come."_

_Arthur nodded slowly. Then he whispered, "Am I a terrible person?"_

_Cobb shook his head. "No, no. You're sick, that's why you attacked her. And then you stabbed yourself, so she could survive. That is definitely proof you are not terrible."_

_"That's not what I was referring to," Arthur replied. "I broke her heart."_

_Cobb frowned. "That's… Well, we all know it's a complicated situation. Ariadne knows better than anyone-"_

_"You didn't see her face," Arthur murmured. "I was right there, knife raised, and she knew she couldn't stop me. She resigned herself to dying. She looked at me, and I saw so much, but nothing I expected. I expected horror and panic. But all I saw was forgiveness and love…" He looked at Cobb. "I don't know what to do with that. It's unfathomable." _

_"She loves you very much," Cobb said softly._

_"I want her to move on," Arthur said. "I just… I don't know how."_

_"Don't worry about her now," Cobb said. "You need to worry about yourself."_

_Arthur swallowed, his eyes downcast. Cobb watched him as he spoke._

_"I'm scared, Dom."_

_The real Cobb heard Ariadne's sharp intake of breath. He wasn't sure which was more alarming to her; that Arthur had referred to Cobb by his first name, or that Arthur had admitted fear._

_"I don't know what happens next," Arthur whispered. "I don't think I can be helped…"_

_"Don't say that," Cobb snapped. "Don't give up. I'm here, Eames is here, Micah is here… And yes, Ariadne is here. Hell, Bethany is too. We're not giving up on you."_

_Arthur looked at him, tears in his eyes, and Cobb wrapped an arm around the younger man's shoulders._

_"We won't leave you alone, Arthur," Cobb murmured._

_"Eames told me you betrayed me," Arthur said softly. "And that I hated you." He looked at Cobb, and shook his head. "I can't imagine ever hating you. You're my brother, my best friend…"_

_Cobb took a deep breath. "I did something terrible to you, Arthur, but in my mind, you were always both those things."_

_"Did I forgive you?"_

_Cobb's eyes were pained. "You did. It was wonderful."_

_"I meant it," Arthur whispered._

_A nurse in scrubs appeared, scanning a clipboard. "Arthur Zaleski?"_

_Arthur and Cobb rose to their feet. Cobb leaned forward and hugged Arthur tightly._

_"I'll see you real soon, okay?"_

_"Thank you," Arthur whispered. He picked up his bag, and Cobb watched him walk away with the nurse, until they walked through a door and though he couldn't see them anymore, he continued to simply stare at the closed door..._

* * *

He and Ariadne awoke at the exact same time. Ariadne had tears running down her face.

"Poor Arthur…"

"He's very sorry about everything," Cobb said. "He's beating himself up over what happened." He paused and added, "Dr. Moroni had to offer proof that Arthur is not a threat to the other patients, so he told the doctors that Arthur stabbed himself, which is true. He's on suicide watch."

Her expression was stricken. "What can I do?"

Cobb looked at her. "I think you know the answer to that question."

She leaned back against the headboard. "Dom… I can't."

"He isn't really Arthur," Cobb murmured. "He isn't _your_ Arthur. He truly believes his old self no longer exists, and I… I am starting to believe him."

Ariadne scowled. "Sure, it's fine for you. You still have your best friend."

Cobb sighed. "I know. I know, it isn't fair." He looked at her, blue eyes piercing. "Volkov made sure of that, didn't he?"

Ariadne looked away. Cobb reached over and squeezed her hand.

"Don't make any decisions now," he said. "Not when you're so upset, not so soon after… Just think about what you want to do next. No matter your decision, Eames, Micah and I will be right behind you. We'll support you."

Ariadne gazed at him, and Cobb had a feeling that she was going to say something to him. But a knock at the door interrupted them. Alison stood there, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her hands.

She gave an awkward smile. "Here, Ari."

Cobb got up, letting Alison slide past him, sitting on the bed next to Ariadne. He watched as Ariadne took the mug from Alison, set it on her nightstand, and then leaned into her roommate, embracing her. Alison looked surprised, but returned the embrace, carefully holding Ariadne as she snuggled into the bed and closed her eyes.

Cobb decided to show himself out.

**review, please**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I spent two weeks in a psychiatric ward in the past year, and thus will be basing much of Arthur's time there off mine. I don't know exactly how Lennox Hill operates; I'm sure it's a little different in real life. Both Arthur and I felt a lot of shame about it, but looking back, it was treatment I really needed. If you think you need that level of emergency help, definitely consider it. It saved my life, and it can save yours too.**

**next chapter: the one w/Eames, who visits Arthur in the hospital. More real-life inspiration going on here…**


	22. Happiness Is A Warm Gun

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**a very grateful thank you to the reviewers from last chapter- ****_Linn29_****: hello! thank you very much for trying this one out… ****_Lauraa-x_****: I don't blame her either, she's very shaken… yay Good Cobb! ****_cinema therapy_****: thank you for the kind words. most of the time, I'm glad too… ****_in. blue. 85_****: yes, I couldn't think of a way for Dr. Moroni to NOT send Arthur to the hospital, it just wouldn't be realistic… I like telling people about the hospital because I want them to know it's a good option. ****_gina1276_****: looks like you tried to review…? ****_music. is. my. heroine_****: thank you! no shame. I tend to forget how unusual it still is. I don't exhibit many clear symptoms, so people are always shocked when they find out**

**shout-out to ****_Lazarus76_**** for the kind words.**

**chapter title from the Beatles song, though I like the version Joe Anderson does in "Across the Universe"**

Happiness Is a Warm Gun

Sunday, June 30, 2013: New York City, New York: Lenox Hill Hospital: Eames

Eames hopped off the subway as the doors slid open. He walked onto the platform, a small handful of people exiting with him. On the white tiled wall next to him, "77th Street" was spelled out in a background of periwinkle blue tiles. Just under it was another tiled sign, in black: "Lenox Hill Hospital."

He loped easily up the stairs, emerging into bright sunlight. He fished into his shirt breast pocket and pulled out his sunglasses. He was dressed casually today, blending in, in a short sleeved button up shirt and jeans. A small plastic bag hung from his free hand.

Lenox Hill Hospital loomed just ahead, a massive brick building that dominated the street. Eames counted at least eleven floors, big glass windows allowing the patients to observe the street life below. He approached the hospital, walking past an ambulance and through the automatic doors.

He walked past the front desk and towards a bank of elevators. As he waited, he glanced around. The hospital was busy, a blur of people. He spotted doctors in long white coats, nurses in a multitude of differently colored scrubs, the occasional janitor, patients in bathrobes, visitors toting flowers.

The elevator arrived, and he hopped on, pressing the button for the sixth floor.

On the sixth floor, he strolled out, heading down the hall. He quickly found the door he was looking for, as described to him by Cobb. A small group of people (an older couple, a young woman, a middle-aged man and a little girl) were grouped outside. No one was speaking, and they all stood separately in their own units.

Eames approached them. "Is this the entrance to the loony bin?"

All five people stared at him. The older woman looked like she might cry, while the young woman rolled her eyes and the middle-aged man looked scandalized.

"I'll take that as a yes," Eames said. He leaned against the wall, waiting with them, checking his watch.

A few minutes later and there was a loud buzzing sound. A nurse pushed open the thick door and glanced at them. He gestured inside, and the small group of visitors shuffled in, Eames last.

The thick door closed behind them. Eames looked around, realizing they were in a small annex, barely six feet by six feet, the only way in or out via door. The nurse punched a code into a small panel on the wall, and then waited patiently, hand on the door handle, looking up at a tiny camera Eames saw, positioned overhead. A moment later, and the door gave another loud buzzing sound. The nurse pulled it open.

Eames wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but the psychiatric ward looked… normal.

It looked just like any other wing of the hospital. Floors were clean and well-scrubbed, the hallways leading left or right, separated for, he could only assume, men and women. Every patient room door was open (for safety concerns, he guessed). There were no paintings on the walls, which were blank.

As he watched, patients ambled past him, barely looking at him. This was more of what he'd expected: patients with frazzled hair, the occasional one in a hospital gown, some with blank expressions, others randomly shouting and calling out.

But most of the patients were dressed in everyday clothes, jeans and t-shirts and blouses. They looked put-together, hair brushed, teeth clean. He glanced at their feet, and noticed everyone was wearing a slip-on shoe, shoes without laces: there were Toms shoes, sandals, flip flops, slippers. If Eames passed many of these people on the street, he was sure he would've had no idea that they were certifiable psychiatric patients.

Eames followed the group of visitors into a large room, surrounded by glass windows on all sides, so nurses and doctors could observe the patients inside. The room was full of tables and chairs, a small sink and cupboards on one side, next to a couple large garbage cans. A cheap coffee machine hummed on a table, a small stack of plastic cups next to it. On other tables were magazines and newspapers; Eames glanced at one, and saw the date was for several months previously.

The visitors were sitting down at tables, facing patients. The older couple sat across from a short, portly man in dark blue pajamas, who was enthusiastic at the sight of them. The young woman sat down in front of a woman around her age, who wore jeans and a neat blouse. The two began chatting. The middle-aged man sat at a table while the little girl with him warmly embraced a middle-aged woman with straggly hair, wearing a thin summer dress.

One look around told Eames that Arthur was not in the room. He stopped a passing nurse.

"Excuse me," he murmured. "I'm here to see Arthur Zaleski."

The nurse looked at him. "Who would you be?"

"Edward Eames," Eames said, holding out a hand. "I'm a friend."

"I'll see if you're on the list," she said.

"Please do."

He waited as the nurse walked away, into an office. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned. A woman, maybe thirty, smiled at him.

"Who are you here to see?" She asked eagerly.

"A friend," Eames said slowly.

"Who? I know everyone."

_Alright_… "Arthur."

The woman nodded knowingly. "Oh yeah. He isn't very friendly, is he? Cute though."

"Mmm, isn't he?" He surveyed her. She looked remarkably normal, in jeans and a t-shirt with the Superman logo.

"No one ever calls him," she said.

He frowned at her. "How would you know that?"

"I answer the phones," she said. She nodded just past him, and he saw a line of pay phones. "Well, I guess it's more accurate to say that Chrissy answers the phones."

Eames' head snapped back to her. "Chrissy."

"Yeah. I'm Debra."

_Shit_. As a Psychology major, Eames had read about Dissociative Identity Disorder, but had never met anyone with the illness. "Is she your only personality?"

Debra laughed heartily. "No, thank God."

Eames opened his mouth to say something, but was saved by the return of the nurse.

"Looks like Arthur did put your name down as a visitor," she remarked. "He must still be in his room. I'll fetch him."

"Can I come?" Eames asked. "I'd like to see where he lives." The nurse shrugged, and Eames followed her.

"Nice to meet ya, Arthur's friend!" Debra called after him.

They walked down one of the long hallways. Eames glanced into the rooms, which were mostly empty. He occasionally saw someone sleeping, curled on a small bed, and every now and then someone was reading, sitting at a sturdy wooden desk.

The nurse stopped at the end of the hall, where a trash bin had been placed between the wall and the door. Technically keeping the door open, but not revealing much. She knocked once and pushed it open.

"Arthur? You have a visitor."

Sitting on the small bed, leaning against the wall and reading a thick book, was Arthur. He was dressed as Eames was used to him: white dress shirt (sans tie), black dress pants. The shoes were different: today he was wearing plain black vans.

Arthur looked up. "Well, well. I was wondering when you were going to show up."

Eames smirked. "Sorry I'm late, darling."

Arthur tossed his book aside and got up. With the nurse, they walked back down the hall and to the visiting room.

Eames sank down into a plastic chair across from Arthur, who leaned forward opposite him, resting his arms on the table. Eames immediately experienced deja vu and paused…

It hit him: his dream in Barcelona, that he was drinking at a bar with Arthur. A dead Arthur, who told him how he missed Ariadne…

"Something wrong?"

Eames snapped out of it. "Erm, nothing. How've you been?"

Arthur shrugged. "I've been better."

"You don't say," Eames commented. "How is it? Here in the madhouse."

Arthur gave him a dark look. "Decidedly better than you perceive it to be."

"How so?"

"There aren't many people here who I would term certifiably 'crazy,'" Arthur said quietly. "Most have substance abuse issues, either the cause or a side effect of their real mental illness. Many are depressed or bipolar; lots have attempted suicide, hence the no shoelaces rule." He glanced down at Eames' laced-up boots for a moment. "A couple with multiple personalities, nearly everyone has a form of anxiety…"

"What do they label you as?"

Arthur frowned. "Jesus, Eames. You're speaking like a man who didn't study Psychology at university."

"Just trying to alleviate the tension," Eames clarified, gesturing between the two men.

"You must be able to understand how surreal this is for me."

"Oh, I can," Eames said, nodding. "I feel any stay in a psychiatric ward could be called surreal, no matter the individual."

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, darling?"

Arthur sighed. "No matter how many times I'm told, I will never be able to grasp the idea that you and I are close friends."

Eames smirked. "Believe it or not, but it's very true."

"We despise each other."

"Never," Eames disagreed. "At least, _I_ never hated you." He stopped speaking, uncomfortably remembering how he _had_ hated Arthur for a time, how he'd manipulated and conned the others into believing Arthur was a psychotic mess…

Arthur studied him, as though he'd heard the pause in Eames' voice. He turned to listen as a nurse stuck her head into the room, calling that if anyone wanted to go outside, now was the time. Arthur looked back at Eames, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, sure," Eames said.

Arthur looked better in the sunlight. His hair was really growing back, to the point it looked like he'd just had a very thorough, short, haircut. Even though it was warm, at least eighty degrees out, he was obviously cold. He tucked his jacket in around himself, drawing his knees to his chest.

They were sitting at a picnic table in the middle of a small courtyard. Arthur was sitting directly on the table, while Eames sat on the bench, facing him.

Arthur looked at him. Wordlessly, he held out his hand.

Eames looked at it for a moment before sighing, reaching into his jacket. "How'd you-"

"Please," Arthur murmured.

Eames sighed. He procured the pack of cigarettes and lighter, passing both to Arthur. He watched as Arthur deftly lit one, taking a long drag. The smoke danced in the sunlight before his face.

Eames had witnessed Arthur smoking on only a handful of occasions. When he'd languished in a pub in Galway, shortly after Isabel divorced him, he'd been approached by a trench coat wearing Arthur, who'd easily blended in with the cloud of smoke around his head. Another time, on a job in New Delhi, Arthur had taken up smoking as a way to help him think when the job grew difficult. Smoking in order to clear his mind was the most common reason Eames had seen Arthur smoke.

"You should really give that up, darling," Eames commented.

Arthur scowled. "You first, Mr. Eames."

"Touché," Eames murmured.

Arthur inhaled deeply, exhaling just as strongly. "How is everyone?"

"Cobb's about what you'd imagine," Eames said. "Stressed, anxious… He said he was going to bring the kids to see you?"

"He did," Arthur confirmed. "That was nice." He sounded sincere.

"Micah's the same," Eames continued. "But I hear he visits you every other day."

Arthur nodded. "He's quite persistent."

"What do you make of that?"

"Incredulity," Arthur murmured. "I barely know the kid."

Eames smirked. "Ah, but he knows you."

"Evidently."

Arthur smoked in silence for several moments. Eames just watched him, studying and analyzing this version of Arthur. He looked relaxed, almost serene.

"This place has been good for you," he said.

"Yes," Arthur said softly.

"I'm glad for you."

"What happened with us?"

Eames' smile faded. Arthur was looking at him very seriously, eyes narrowed, lit cigarette dangling from his hand. Eames suddenly wanted one of his own, and pulled the pack out of his pocket again.

"Lots of things," he said at last. He flicked the lighter on, lighting his own cigarette.

"I recall reminding you on the importance of specificity once."

Eames' lips quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, that you did."

"Well?"

"We had a disagreement."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "What else is new?"

"What our disagreement was about."

Eames took a deep breath, steeling himself. This was the moment…

"On the job… I fell in love with Ariadne."

Silence fell. Eames looked straight ahead, ignoring Arthur's stare, which he knew was locked on his face. He took the opportunity to inhale another mouthful of smoke.

At last, Arthur spoke: "I can see how that could create a bit of discontentment between us."

"You were furious," Eames murmured. "I was… a bit of a cad, actually. I said some things to her… Made her doubt that you loved her. I take responsibly for being part of the reason your relationship was in trouble."

"But we repaired it, Ariadne told me that."

Eames nodded. "I came clean… You and Ariadne forgave each other, and that was that."

"Was it?"

Eames glanced at Arthur. The point man was studying him, a small, amused smile dancing across his features.

"Somehow, I get the impression not all was said and done," Arthur commented.

"Of course not," Eames said lightly. "But I promised someone I would leave her alone when she asked me to. And she did; after I took her back to Paris, she told me to leave one day, and I followed her request."

Arthur exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I take it this someone was me?"

"Naturally," Eames sighed. "But no, I haven't moved on. You don't just stop loving someone."

"Especially not when it comes to you. I assume you still pine after Isabel?"

Eames rolled his eyes. "Not so much these days, believe it or not."

"Hm." Arthur considered this. He looked out over the courtyard, at the other patients who milled about, sitting on the grass, talking in small groups, smoking or drinking soda from a vending machine.

"Does she know you love her still?"

Eames grimaced. "Yes. Nothing will come of it though. She will never not love _you_."

"Do you really believe that?"

Arthur's eyes were dark, one eyebrow raised. Eames' mouth twisted, considering.

"I do," he said at last. "You underestimate how much she loves you."

"Not _me_," Arthur snapped. "That's where you're all mistaken. I no longer doubt that she loved the old me terribly; what I do doubt is that she can love the new me like that. She doesn't."

"Arthur-"

"I nearly killed her," he hissed. "That's enough of a reason to not love someone."

Eames shrugged. "You nearly killed Micah, yet that kid worships you."

"He's an odd one," Arthur relented. "Eames. I'm trying to tell you that you should tell her how you really feel."

Eames sighed in exasperation. "I won't. It doesn't matter. Like I said, she won't love anyone else as long as you're around-"

"What if I wasn't?"

Eames stared at him. Arthur looked very serious, meeting Eames' shocked expression.

"What do you mean?" Eames demanded.

"I'm going to Australia in two weeks," Arthur said. "For six months. Bethany is coming with me."

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

"You…" Eames ran a hand through his hair. "Aside from all the emotional reasons not to, does the fact you're currently committed to a psychiatric ward have any impact on that?"

Arthur shrugged. "I'll be released in time. And I committed myself voluntarily. I have a bit more freedom than if Dr. Moroni had stuck me here." He smiled. "My doctors think I'm improving."

Eames scoffed. "If they knew the whole story, I somehow doubt they would still think that."

"Ariadne is the crux of my issues. Fixing them is simple: I just stay away from her. Australia is on the other side of the planet. I think that's far away enough, don't you?"

"You sound a tad like a sociopath right now," Eames grumbled.

"Not quite," Arthur said. "I'm being social with you right now, aren't I?"

"I don't count." Eames felt dismay at the thought of Arthur leaving Ariadne like this. "You can't just abandon her…"

"She'll have you."

"She doesn't want me!" Eames burst out sharply. "She only wants you."

Arthur sighed. "When I'm no longer available, she'll reconsider. She'll need someone to support her, to comfort her." His eyes slid to Eames. "Maybe a getaway to South America will be just what she needs to get me out of her system."

Eames recalled how Ariadne had declined his offer of joining him on the job in Argentina so she didn't leave Arthur alone. Maybe…

"This is such a bizarre conversation," Eames said at last. "The last time… You were telling me to back off… and now-"

"I'm encouraging it," Arthur finished. "I'm not a sociopath, Eames. Not at all. I want her to be happy, but I'm smart enough to know that she could never be truly happy with me, the way I am now. And I could never be happy with her. I'd die first."

It was a mark of the seriousness of the situation that Eames took Arthur's words literally. Arthur was still, inherently, good. He knew the difference between right and wrong, and he knew killing Ariadne was a terribly immoral act.

Arthur had once let himself be killed to save her. This time around, _he_ would kill himself so she could survive. Not out of love; out of morality.

Eames allowed himself to indulge in what Arthur was suggesting. He thought of a heartbroken Ariadne, having witnessed Arthur and Bethany board a plane bound for Sydney. He thought of the weeks it'd take her to go about her normal routine, he thought of finally convincing her that a trip to Argentina, to work on a relaxing but stimulating job in an exotic country would be beneficial to her. He thought of the months he'd heal her, until she could feel human again.

He knew it would be a long time before she'd recover, and he knew there was a part of her that would always love Arthur, always think of him as the love of her life. He thought of how he could never work with Arthur again, because Ariadne wouldn't be able to, and he wouldn't leave her just to work with him. He thought of how news of Arthur would trickle from the industry to Eames and Ariadne, how he'd comfort her when they heard of a new woman, a new country he was in, the last job he'd completed, the new scars he'd accumulated. Eames would be there through it all. Unlike Arthur, he wouldn't abandon her to live in a world alone.

"Just something to think about," Arthur murmured, his voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance away.

Eames watched as Arthur got up, stubbing the cigarette out on the table. Eames saw that the nurses were gathering the patients together again, to shepherd them inside. Arthur held out his hand and Eames took it.

"Thanks for dropping by," Arthur said. "If I get out before you visit again… Well, I'll make sure to see you before I leave."

"It'd be appreciated," Eames murmured.

Arthur gave him a small smile and then turned, walking away with his hands in his pockets. Eames watched him go, the cigarette dangling from his hand.

**review please**

**I met a guy with DID. Nicest guy I've ever met, always helpful and friendly. His other personalities (four), not so much.**

**next chapter: Adele, Ariadne, Helena, Adam, Bethany.**


	23. Make You Feel My Love

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**reviewers encourage me- _Lauraa-x_: glad my experience could be put to good use! my parents joked I was in the hospital for research purposes for my writing. I let them think that, it made them feel better... and yes, you've nailed exactly what Arthur is thinking. _MrsCullen123_: hi! thank you, but no guarantees. _Lazarus76_: thanks friend! much appreciated x _In. Blue. 85_: I don't think it's a very good idea either, but Arthur will be Arthur... I think Arthur thinks he can force Ariadne to move on by being with Bethany, as he imagines that would be something that could work on him. (he doesn't remember that it didn't with Eames, unfortunately...)**

**chapter title from the song originally by Bob Dylan, but it was Adele's cover I listened to whilst writing**

Make You Feel My Love

Monday, July 8, 2013: New York City, New York: Ariadne's Apartment: Ariadne

Ariadne stared out the window as the fan blew semi-cool air into her face.

It was yet another absurdly hot day in a string of heat waves that never seemed to end. Even though Ariadne and Alison were hopelessly spending money to keep their air conditioning running twenty-four hours a day, the apartment never felt cool enough. Alison had fled to the grocery store with Ethan, leaving Ariadne alone in the apartment, sitting on the couch, holding a bag of rapidly-melting ice over her arms and hands, while a fan running on maximum power attempted to cool her down.

But even though her body wasn't cool, her heart and insides felt like they were encased in ice.

The lessons with Helena were... proceeding. Ariadne faithfully made the trip to Helena's home every other day, where Helena would lead her into the study. They'd spend hours in there with a PASIV, Helena plumbing Ariadne's mind, showing her how to dredge up memories, how to flip them so they were recognizable and viewable for the real Ariadne to experience. She also taught Ariadne how to become invisible when viewing memories, so as to see them as they were, without her outside influence to warp them.

But the worst thing was that everything needed to be re-lived. To get Arthur's memories to stick, both she and he would have to feel what he'd been feeling at the time. The process was honestly painful and exhausting. Helena blisteringly tore through Ariadne's mind, showing her things she'd long forgotten.

But by far, the most damaging moment was when Helena had Ariadne relive the most painful moment of her life.

They'd been routinely working through Ariadne's mind, and everything had been calm and fine... Until Helena brought up the memory of Arthur's death.

_As soon as the familiar hallways and doors swirled around her, Ariadne knew where she was. She'd panicked, grabbing the older woman's arm._

_"We can't be here! We have to leave-"_

_Gun fire erupted around them. Ariadne ducked reflexively, but Helena remained standing, impassive. Her expression turned to one of interest when three figures dove into the hall next to them. Ariadne cried out as she witnessed-for the first time, she hadn't actually seen it happen-Arthur get shot in his stomach. Her own stomach flipped as she watched his face grimace, his body slide down the wall._

_"NO!" Her memory-self cried in horror. The real Ariadne felt her stomach twist in pure fear in response, what she'd felt at the very same time._

_Arthur waved her away: "Help me up."_

_Ariadne and Helena watched in silence as the memory unfolded. They saw Micah's terror, Ariadne pulling Arthur into the closet. They followed them inside, observing as Micah scrambled through the window, as Ariadne hesitated and Arthur's hands gripped her waist, shoving her through (Ariadne instinctively pressed her hands to her waist, where Arthur's had been, as he did so before her again). They listened as the men pounded on the door, they saw Ariadne turn around, confused. Ariadne's heart broke again when she saw Arthur kiss her so desperately, pressing himself as close to her as he could, the wall separating their bodies. And then he ended the kiss, stepping back so Micah could drag Ariadne through the window._

_She couldn't help it. The real Ariadne screamed when Arthur was shot, her pain breaking through. She fell to her knees._

_Helena frowned as Arthur fell down the elevator shaft. "Hm. Very tragic indeed."_

_Ariadne scrambled around, picking up a discarded gun and shooting Helena, and then herself, awake._

_As soon as they were both back in the real world, Ariadne turned on Helena. "What the HELL was that? Why did you take me back there?"_

_Helena blinked at her. "I'm sorry, Ariadne. That was a mistake."_

_She offered no further apology or commentary on the matter._

Back in the present, Ariadne wiped her face with her hand. It'd gotten to the point that she wasn't sure if she was wiping away sweat, or tears. She felt so brittle and fragile; she cried constantly.

If it weren't for the fact that she was routinely witness to the good memories of Arthur, she wasn't sure she'd be able to keep going.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her reverie. She glanced around and got up, shuffling towards the door. She pulled it open.

Adam smiled at her.

"Hello Ariadne," he said.

Ariadne offered her own smile, as they exchanged a friendly hug. She relished the feel of his arms around her; she knew he wasn't Arthur, but he really felt close to it.

"Come in, Adam," she said.

Adam walked inside, looking relaxed in a t-shirt, shorts and sandals, sunglasses resting on top of his head. He darted straight to the fan.

"Thank god," he moaned. "I'm used to heat, but I really can't handle this humidity. How do you stand it?"

"I don't know," Ariadne said, honestly. "Last year was worse, I think, because I was new to the city. Now that I've survived a summer here, I feel more adept. Not a pro, but able."

Adam smirked. "Well, I just feel like a melting popsicle." He glanced around. "Where is everyone?"

"Arthur and Micah are at their place," Ariadne said. "I'll take you there."

"Wasn't there something you wanted to talk to us about? Me, Micah, Dom and Edward, I think...?"

When Adam had called to tell her that he was coming to the city to see Arthur, Ariadne had decided now was as good a time as any to confess her plan, what she'd been working on for weeks with Helena. Time was ticking, after all: Arthur was still planning to fly to Australia on July 15, according to Micah, who'd broken the news with an anxious expression of guilt.

None of them knew that Ariadne had a plan, and that if the plan worked, not only would Arthur stay, but the Old Arthur would come back as well.

After everything that had happened, Ariadne felt a need to keep Adam in the loop. He'd proven his devotion to and adoration of Arthur, and Ariadne felt mean if she didn't tell him something about Arthur. Considering this was a life-altering plan, it only made sense to tell Adam too.

"Yeah, there is," Ariadne said softly.

"I take it you'll explain what's going when we're all there, yeah?"

Ariadne smiled. "Yep."

"All right. I can wait."

* * *

Though he didn't say it outloud, Ariadne could tell that Adam enjoyed riding the subway. She smirked to herself as she observed him gazing out the window with a tiny smile on his face, his eyes roaming over the passengers, listening interestingly to to the musicians busking on the platforms. Even though waiting in the tunnels for a train was akin to roasting in fire (the cement trapping the heat underground) Adam remained quite cheerful, following Ariadne around like an obedient dog.

"Nice building," Adam commented as they reached the tall brick building where Arthur and Micah lived. Ariadne chuckled, leading him inside and pressing the elevator button for the eighth floor.

Having Adam with her made riding the elevator less traumatizing.

And she really didn't want to climb eighty stairs in ninety-eight degree humid weather.

Adam eagerly followed her down the hall towards the apartment, stopping before the door marked 8E. Ariadne's heart sank as she heard the distinct sounds of a cello coming from inside. She made a point to knock heavily, until the cello caught off. Adam looked confused as a woman's voice could be heard, muffled. They listened to footsteps, and then the door opened.

Bethany answered, in very short denim cut-offs and a strappy yellow tank-top. Her feet were bare, toes painted bright red, and her red hair was arranged in a neat plait, immediately making Ariadne feel uncomfortable; she'd tossed her hair up in a messy ponytail.

"Oh hello!" Bethany beamed. Ariadne offered a lukewarm smile. "Come in, come in."

She walked in first, bypassing Bethany and finding Micah on the couch, typing furiously on a laptop, a cello resting on the floor in the chair opposite. He glanced up and nodded at her, before returning to his work. Ariadne noticed books and papers were spread out on the floor at his feet.

Behind her, Bethany had offered her hand to Adam, who took it.

"I'm Bethany, Arthur's girlfriend," she explained. Ariadne bit her tongue at the words _Arthur's girlfriend._ "You must be Adam."

"What gave me away?" Adam asked with a straight face. Bethany laughed, and Adam cracked a smile at it. "It's nice to meet you. Arthur's talked about you."

_He had_? That was news to Ariadne. Luckily, she was saved the chance of asking (because things weren't already awkward enough) by the appearance of Arthur himself.

"Hey, look at you! Hair and everything!" Adam said gleefully. Arthur rolled his eyes but smiled, walking over to embrace his twin. His hair was growing past a buzzcut length, close to the length his hair was when it was gelled back. Adam and Arthur were almost dressed the same, though Arthur wore a white dress shirt and Vans.

"It's good to see you," Arthur said warmly. "How're Lily and the kids?"

"Fine, fine," Adam said. "We went to mom's for the Fourth. Watched the fireworks at the beach, grilled some hot dogs, Mom put out your flag... Very patriotic."

Arthur smirked. "The ex-soldier in me is thrilled."

"He should be. When did you get released from the hospital?"

"Yesterday," Arthur replied.

"Doing better?"

"Definitely." The twins grinned at each other until Arthur spoke again. "So Bethany and I were just about to go to lunch; you're welcome to come along."

Adam's eyes half-slid to where Ariadne and Micah were, before returning to his brother.

"Can't," he apologized. "I already promised Micah I'd check out the place he's doing his internship at. I want to see how it compares to Cedars-Sinai."

Micah's head shot up, and he frowned in confusion before catching Ariadne's eye and the slight shake of her head. He recovered before Arthur could notice anything suspicious. "Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Sorry Arthur."

"It's fine," Arthur assured him. He turned back to his brother. "I'll see you later today."

"For sure," Adam said breezily. "I can't wait to hear about all the new friends you made in the hospital." He laughed as Arthur rolled his eyes. Arthur clapped his brother on the shoulder, and Adam shook Bethany's hand again as they made to leave. Ariadne offered her own feeble farewell, while Micah barely looked up from his work. The door shut behind them.

Adam looked at Ariadne. "So that's Bethany?"

"Yeah," Ariadne confirmed, sitting at the circular dining room table. Micah got up, snapping his laptop closed with a sigh.

"She seems... young."

"Before you tear into her, please remember she's my sister, and I love her?" Micah called, stacking his papers.

"I wasn't going to tear into her," Adam said. "That's just a fact. Arthur didn't mention she was so young. How old is she?"

"Twenty," Micah said.

Adam's eyebrows soared. "Oh. Huh. Well... I kinda knew that Arthur likes younger women." He smiled at Ariadne who rolled her eyes. "Makes Lily seem positively ancient."

"Better not tell her that," Ariadne commented. She was very fond of Adam's wife.

"She knows I love her madly."

Ariadne's heart twisted at the familiar declaration that came from the same voice that had once said the same words to her. Something of this must have shown in her face, for Adam looked away uncomfortably.

"Sorry, Ariadne," he murmured.

"It isn't your fault," Ariadne replied.

"Still. I am sorry. And I think on some level, he's sorry, too."

"That doesn't really make me feel better."

Adam grimaced. "Yeah, I know."

"He's told me that he doesn't want to see me hurt. He's just very bad at sticking to that."

"My brother, the genius, is really an idiot," Adam said. "I just... I really wish we could get the Old one back, even just for one second, so we could watch that guy slug this new bastard."

_If I have my way, that could be a reality._

"So... what's the plan?" Micah asked.

"I have something to tell you guys," Ariadne said. "When are Dom and Edward getting here?"

Micah checked his watch. "Any time now."

"Okay. Let's get ready for a long chat.

While Adam poured five glasses of water (Micah's apartment was just as hot, if not hotter than Ariadne's) Ariadne helped Micah gather up his papers and notebooks, as he feebly explained he couldn't tell her anything about his work after she asked.

"Doctor-Patient confidentiality," Micah explained. "What I _will_ say is that I absolutely love working at the clinic. It's amazing, and I'm learning a shit-ton of stuff. I'm definitely on the right career path."

"That's wonderful, Micah," Ariadne gushed. He beamed, just as someone knocked on the door. Micah flitted to the door, throwing it open to reveal tired and haggard-looking Eames and Cobb.

"Dear _God_," Eames groaned, shoving past Micah and striding to the fan, much like Adam had in Ariadne's apartment. "This weather is God's cruel joke on all the hypocrites and sinners in this city." He noticed Adam's stunned look and clarified, "I am one among them and I do not judge others' lifestyles. I am just incredibly frustrated and bewildered at this damn humidity."

Adam managed a nervous laugh. "Oh. I see."

Cobb looked slightly more composed than Eames. "Hey, Adam."

"Hi, Dom."

They settled at the dining room table with ice and water. Eames laid a wet towel over his forehead, while Micah dragged the fan to the table so it blew air over all of them. As soon as everyone was seated, Ariadne took a deep breath to speak.

"There's something I've been doing that I need to tell you about," she said. "I know how to save Arthur."

Four pairs of eyes locked on to her.

"How?" Cobb asked.

Ariadne looked down at her clasped hands. "I, uh... I've been working with someone who knows a lot about dream share. More than anyone else on the planet, really. She's been teaching me how to go into Arthur's mind and... bring up his memories for him to re-experience and encode again. The process is difficult, and also life-threatening, both for Arthur and for me; should I fail, I'd be essentially trapped in his mind until both our bodies give out, or we're killed by someone on the outside."

Silence followed her speech. The men before her exchanged worried glances.

"Helena Cross?" Eames checked. Ariadne nodded, as Cobb sighed agitatedly and Micah and Adam blinked in confusion.

Eames looked dismayed. "Ari, that woman is a snake. She'd never do anything like this without promise of payment. What have you sworn to do for her after you...?"

Ariadne bit her lip. "We're going to kill Volkov."

"What, the man who did this to Arthur in the first place?" Adam asked, eyes wide.

"Yes," Ariadne confirmed. "Helena wants him dead so he can't do what he did to Arthur, to anyone else. He's too dangerous to be kept alive. The process of mental torture that he committed is impossible to recreate if anyone knows how to do it. Well, nearly impossible, as Helena and Volkov discovered it..."

"They-" Eames broke off, shaking his head. "It's not important. What's important is you're going to kill someone? Ari, you've never killed-"

"I know," Ariadne snapped. "But it's _Volkov_. The man who tortured Arthur for months, who reduced him to this. He deserves it."

Cobb swallowed. "Ariadne, murder is... traumatic. You'll never be the same after you've killed someone."

Ariadne looked away. "I realize that. After we've killed Volkov, I will assist Helena in her own death. Euthanasia, to be specific."

"Jesus," Micah croaked. "Ariadne, this is-"

"All kinds of awful, I know," Ariadne said. "But... I _have_ to do this. I need to save him."

"Do you have a guarantee that this will work?" Cobb asked.

Ariadne shook her head. "No. Like I said, the process is difficult. Even if I bring up all his memories, they may not stick."

She was surprised when everyone looked at each other again. She studied their expressions and saw anxiety, sorrow, and... guilt?

"What?" She asked, staring at them.

Micah swallowed. "Ari... Is it worth it?"

She stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Micah... What? It's saving Arthur, of _course_ it's worth it-"

"We all want the old Arthur back," Cobb said. "Don't doubt that. It's just... This process could kill you both. And even if you do it right, it sounds taxing and terrible and you may not even save him."

"He's so happy right now," Micah murmured. "He's doing better, we can all see that-"

"Do you hear yourselves?" Ariadne hissed. "You're actually suggesting that I just _not_ try to save him?"

"Think of what Arthur wants," Micah interjected. "Do you really think he'll go along with this? He's said it before: he thinks you're both better off now..." At Ariadne's horrified look, he added, "I know you love him, and I know he loved you very much too. I _know_ that, believe me."

"He told us about your... argument, that night," Cobb said softly. "He may be deranged, but he's still logical. He truly believes this is for the best."

"He really wants to go to Australia," Micah continued. "He thinks if he's away from you, he'll get better. And, well, considering how being near you is really the trigger... He may be right."

Ariadne was dumbfounded. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. _Micah_: don't you want your best friend back?"

Micah's face crumbled. "Oh, Ari, of course I do. But more than that, I want him happy. And, as difficult as it is to fathom, he's happy with Bethany, he's happy to go to Australia, he's happy to work on a new job."

"What about my happiness?" Ariadne demanded.

"I want you happy, too! I just..." Micah groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Cobb looked sad. He reached forward and gripped her hand. "We don't want to see you hurt, Ari."

Eames spoke up. "I... agree with Cobb." Her eyes snapped to him. "I don't want to see you lose him again, love."

"I'm losing him if he leaves," Ariadne said sharply.

"But he'll still be alive," Eames said gently. "If you fail-"

"I'll be dead too, so does it matter?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she froze. Micah looked away, while Cobb looked shocked and Eames groaned. Adam was pale, taking in the scene.

For one moment, one sliver of a moment, Ariadne saw their point of view. Arthur was finally becoming stable, finally beginning to put himself back together. He was happy with Bethany, smiling and laughing with her, in a way that painfully reminded Ariadne of how he'd been with her. He was rejoining the dream world, a line of work that he'd had his whole life, that had gotten him through every traumatic experience.

And she saw how her last statement must've sounded: it was okay for Arthur to die, so long as he took her with him. It sounded like she was willing to sacrifice his life in an effort to regain her own happiness.

"I love him," she croaked.

"We know that," Cobb said. "But, sometimes... The best thing to do for the one we love is to let them go."

Makena's voice reverberated through her: _Keep faith, young one. He will return, but only if you learn to let him go first._

"But he won't come back this time," Ariadne mumbled. She'd spoken out loud, and they all stared at her in bewilderment. She blushed.

"I'm so sorry, love," Eames whispered.

"You all really think I shouldn't try?" Ariadne asked.

"Look, don't make any decisions right now," Cobb interjected. "Sleep on it. I appreciate you telling us your plan, and I'm glad I got to share my opinion. Obviously, the ultimate decision of whether to proceed or not is up to you."

"Will you tell him?" Micah asked.

Ariadne nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Then your opinion and his are the only one's that matter," Micah said.

* * *

An hour later, Ariadne walked to the subway station, her hands in her pockets, her head hanging low.

She felt more uncertain than ever before, drained and exhausted. They'd all been so kind and warm to her afterwards, trying to make her feel better, attempting to assuage her guilt. She understood where they were coming from, their fear that she could trigger a relapse in Arthur, or worse. She knew they loved both herself and him. They didn't want to lose both of them.

Ariadne's train arrived and she stepped on, taking a seat. A moment later she heard running feet, and a breathless Adam burst onto the train.

He smiled at her. "Hey."

"Adam," Ariadne said in surprise. He sank down onto the seat next to her, catching his breath.

"I don't recommend sprinting in this weather," he gasped.

"Yeah, I wouldn't either," Ariadne said. "I thought you were going to take a taxi to your hotel."

"I will," Adam said. "But I wanted to talk to you, first." The doors closed, and the train lumbered forward.

She stared. Adam took a deep breath.

"I think you should try."

"What?" She asked, throat dry.

"Your plan," Adam continued. "I think you should try to bring him back. You're clearly miserable, and I think, if the old Arthur is really still there, I know he's just as despondent. He'd be in anguish over how he's losing you, throwing you away like this. I understand that... whatever you have to do, could kill him. But considering he died to save you... I think he'd accept the price."

Ariadne was, once again, close to tears. "Oh, Adam."

"I mean, you should talk to him first," Adam added. "Explain the pros and cons. He may not want to try, he may want you to leave him alone. And I think you should respect his wishes. But it wouldn't hurt to ask him."

"Thank you," Ariadne murmured.

"I see why the others think the way they do," Adam said. "But he's my brother. Even though we've barely spoken over the past decade, he's my twin, and I _know_ him. I think he'll want to do right by you, even if it costs him dearly."

The train stopped. Adam stood, smiling down at her.

"Anyway, that's my two cents," he said. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Yes please," Ariadne said. Adam gave her a little wave and stepped off. She watched him walk away until the doors closed and the train sped away.

* * *

It was later that night, while she thought about what Adam had said, that for the second time that day someone knocked on her door. Ariadne got up slowly, wondering if it was Adam again...

She threw the door open.

It was Eames.

He smiled. "Hey, Ari."

"Edward," she said. "Hi. Come in." She stepped back, letting him shuffle inside. He looked slightly uncomfortable, fidgeting.

Ariadne closed the door, following him. "What's up?"

"I have something to tell you," Eames said. Her stomach flipped. Was Eames going to renege on his earlier opinion? Would he agree with her, like Adam did? She eagerly watched him, twisting her hands together.

He finally stopped, turning on the spot to look at her. She was alarmed at the intensity in his eyes.

"I love you."

Ariadne stared at him. He took a deep breath.

"I know you've said you know that," he said sharply. "But I wanted to tell you again. I love you, Ariadne. And I want to be there for you. I want to help you, I want to go everywhere with you, I want to _be_ with you."

"Oh Edward," Ariadne said.

"And I know you love him," Eames continued. "And I know you think you'll always love him, and I want you to know that you're right. Because I've never stopped loving Isabel. But that's why I'm perfect for you right now. I'm just as lovelorn as you. I miss her just as much as you'll miss him." He smiled. "We can be miserable together."

She laughed. "Oh, God, this is so sweet, Edward. But..."

_His hand rests on her face, stroking her cheek, her skin is slick with the kisses he peppers lovingly over her body. Chocolate brown eyes meet auburn, and a smile dances over his face. _"_I'm always with you," he says, and he smothers her with a kiss that sets every nerve in her body on fire._

_"I'm always with you."_

"I've been ruined," Ariadne said. "More ruined, I think, that Isabel ruined you. He owns me. I won't ever stop thinking about him. You and Isabel parted with an understanding, knowing you were finished. I will never have that closure. As far as I'm concerned, we're unfinished.

_"You are never alone if you've been loved, Ariadne. And he loved you."_

"He'll haunt me for the rest of my life," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Edward. I won't doom you to a life with someone who could never love you the way you deserve."

Eames studied her. He slowly approached her, until he stood directly before her. He took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"What if I said all I wanted was you, just as damaged as you say you are?"

She chuckled. "I couldn't do that to you. You mean too much to me."

His eyes were somber. "I thought you might respond like this. Just so you know... You are worth a shot, love."

She froze, staring. How could he know? How could he know Arthur had spoken those words to her, two years ago? What they meant? She looked up at him, seeing only concern and adoration in his pale eyes, and-

She kissed him.

He tasted like iced tea and his body was warm against hers, the only warmth she'd actually appreciated in weeks. She clung to him, kissing him desperately. She was so lonely, and he was comfort, pure comfort, and she wanted all the love she could get right now.

Eventually they broke apart, both gasping.

Eames smiled. "Well. That was unexpected. But decidedly not unwelcome."

"You make me feel better," Ariadne whispered. "Just by being here, by being yourself. I love that about you..."

"But not _me_, entire."

"Not as much as you'd like me to," she confessed.

He shrugged. "I'll take what I can get."

"I..." Ariadne trailed off. "I don't want you to get your hopes up. But, right now... I want to feel better. I want to feel like someone wants me..."

"I do," he said, unflinchingly.

She believed him. And, right then, she wanted him too.

Shoving Arthur's face and voice from her mind, she took Eames' hand and led him to her bedroom.

**review, please**

**If you've never been in New York City during the summer, consider yourself very lucky, because it is actually the worst.**

**next chapter: Green Day, and Micah and Arthur go on a road trip of sorts, to a place that brings a new kind of catharsis for Arthur and a revelation for Micah. if my outline holds, it will be the last chapter that is not an Arthur or Ariadne POV.**

**SIX CHAPTERZ LEFT GUYZ**


	24. 21 Guns

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**reviewers make all my dreams come true- _PrettyPlease_: I'm so glad you get it, I was nervous people wouldn't understand why the team responded like they did! I feel so bad for Ari, she's so lonely, being with Eames right now would make her feel a bit better. _Lauraa-x_: could I just say that the fact you review every chapter is just the most wonderful thing? and I'm so happy it made sense to you! Arthur told him to go for it, and he did, and... it didn't work out perfectly, but at least SOMETHING happened with Ari ;) _cinematherapy_: could you? lol. _In. Blue. 85_: I friggin love NYC, but the summer is hell. the fall is the best season to go, it's lovely. TEAM ARI YEAHHH. this story is Ari's hero journey... _Nina.4444_: yay! glad you're accepting of Eames, haha. poor Bethany, loving her because of the drama... :P and I love long reviews, yay! ****_music. is. my. heroine_: I think everyone, in the story as well, is very conflicted. I love Adam too, he's a nice guy. I'm thrilled you picked up that Adam hadn't said anything at the discussion, I did that on purpose, obviously _walter-baitxx_: hello! I love the "NO" and the "but it was good." here's your new chapter...**

******Happy Fourth of July, Americans! this chapter is quite fitting.**

******AUTHOR'S NOTE: this chapter is one of my very favorites.**

**chapter title from the song by Green Day because that's totally the band Micah listened to when he was a teenager...**

21 Guns

Thursday, July 11, 2013: Washington, D.C.: Union Station: Micah

"Are you going to tell me why you've brought me here?"

Micah looked away from the window to face Arthur, who sat in the seat opposite him. Arthur was dressed impeccably, as always, in the black dress pants and white button-down shirt that Micah considered to be his staple. There were some paramount differences, however; Arthur's black tie hung loosely around his neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. But the biggest change was definitely the beard Arthur was inexplicably growing. Micah was dying to know why, but he guessed either Arthur himself didn't know or didn't realize why it was such a big deal.

Arthur raised an eyebrow and Micah sighed, finally choosing to answer his question.

"There's something you need to see," he said at last. Arthur watched him before sighing and turning away, looking out the window.

The Maryland landscape outside was a blur of gray and dead grass. It was raining, drops splattering lightly against the glass windows. The train lumbered on, and Micah checked his watch, just as the landscape abruptly vanished as the train entered a dark tunnel.

"Nearly there," he said softly. Arthur didn't comment, only placed his clasped hands on his lap.

They disembarked at Union Station, in the heart of the nation's capital. Micah led the way through the station, aware that Arthur was silently following him. The crowds were thick with a mix of commuting businessmen and tourists, and Micah, ever polite, found himself stumbling a bit as he ambled through them. He jumped when a hand landed on his arm, turning to meet Arthur's emotionless eyes. Arthur brushed past him, cutting a path through the crowd like Moses parting the sea. People eyed him, with an air of respect that no one ever reserved for Micah.

_There's the Arthur I know_, Micah thought in amusement.

It was still raining outside, and combined with the humidity, Micah was amazed he hadn't collapsed in a puddle of melted-Micah. Beside him, Arthur ran a hand over his face, frowning at the downpour.

"I assume we're not going to loiter here all evening," Arthur commented. "Taxi or subway?"

"Depends," Micah replied. "Are you paying or am I?"

"Train tickets maxed out your budget?"

Micah scowled. "I may be working a paid internship, but I'm not rolling in it."

Arthur smirked. "I'll pay for the taxi. If you tell me where we're going."

Micah grinned and turned away, scurrying down the front steps of the station. He could hear Arthur sigh and follow him, as Micah raised an arm to flag down an idling taxi. They scrambled inside, slightly wet from the rain.

"Where to?" The driver drawled.

Micah made sure Arthur was paying attention before facing the front. "Arlington."

He could practically hear Arthur's spine crack as he straightened up. The taxi pulled away from the train station and into the soaked streets of Washington.

It was a short drive, and Micah studied the landmarks they passed with interest. He'd been to Washington before, of course, but it'd been a while. There was something truly breathtaking about the city and all the history it possessed. Micah thought fondly of the trip he'd gone on with some Cornell friends to tour the city.

And he thought of the last time he'd been to the city, and what he'd seen; the same thing he intended to show Arthur.

Arlington National Cemetery was all but deserted by the time Arthur and Micah reached it. The rain had scared away the casual tourists, leaving behind the devoted ones who might've made a trip to the capital solely to see the site. Micah could feel Arthur's eyes on him as they got out of the car. Micah fumbled with the pocket umbrella he never left home without.

"You don't have an umbrella, do you?" He realized, glancing at Arthur.

Arthur shrugged. "It's warm enough. I'll be fine."

Micah bit his lip. "Still, I-"

"No." Arthur stepped back as Micah offered him his own umbrella, the taxi disappearing back down the road behind them. "It... It feels nice. The rain. Reminds me..." But he trailed off, turning to face the cemetery gates.

"Are you leading or what?"

Micah shuffled ahead, Arthur falling in step beside him. They walked on the neat cement paths, passing the many rows of small white headstones, adorned in thousands of mini American flags. They continued on past the Kennedy memorial and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier (guard standing faithfully beside it even in the summer storm). Leaves littered the grass and road, blown away by the wind that had joined the rain. Micah shivered; no matter what Arthur said about the heat, it was still cold to him. He glanced to his side, but Arthur remained impassive, staring straight ahead.

Eventually they reached the field Micah had been leading them to. He stepped off the path, walking down a long row, Arthur shadowing him. In the middle, surrounded on all sides by graves, he stopped, looking at the one in front of him. Arthur stopped beside him.

"Seth Michael Erickson," Arthur read. "Private, Iraqi Freedom. May 9th, 1985. September 13th, 2006." He glanced at Micah. "He was your friend. The one who died when you were at Cornell."

Micah nodded. "So you remember that."

"I remember researching you. I thought that tidbit was unusual. It reminded me of myself..."

"And that's why we're here," Micah finished.

Arthur frowned at him. "I don't understand-"

"Then let me explain it to you," Micah said shortly, pivoting on the spot to face Arthur. He was slightly taller than the point man, but he felt like a young child next to him. From the beard, to his posture, to the weary aura he carried, it was crystal clear to Micah that this was a _man_, a man who'd gone through hell. Who was still, kind of, stuck in hell.

"He was my best friend," Micah explained. "I loved him. And I _failed_ him."

"Seth committed suicide," Arthur said plainly, as if Micah hadn't just said something very deep and difficult to speak about. "I didn't think he would be buried here."

"It took some work, but we got it," Micah said softly. "His family never got a condolence letter from the president though. But that's not my point." Micah sighed deeply. "My point is, I am _tired_ of losing my friends."

Arthur blinked. "You've only lost Seth-"

"You _idiot_," Micah hissed. "Who do you think you are?"

"I don't. That's the problem-"

"You are my best friend," Micah snapped. "You are my brother, in every possible way save for blood. And you, _you_, died for me, and the other people you loved. But then you came back," Micah's voice caught. "I didn't get a second chance with Seth. But I get a second chance with you."

"Oh Micah," Arthur murmured, shaking his head.

"You wouldn't let anyone help you, last time," Micah said. "But this time, you'd better accept that you don't get a choice. I am _going_ to help you."

Arthur's mouth twisted in a dark grin. "Who says I want help?"

"Uh, _logic?_ So you can, you know, _live_?"

"I am living," Arthur muttered.

Micah rolled his eyes. "No, Arthur. You're alive. But you sure as hell aren't living."

"What is it with you?" Arthur demanded. "All of you? You're all so focused on keeping me alive. It's bizarre."

"You're not in Kansas anymore," Micah snapped. "This is real life."

"Is it?" Arthur wondered. "Check your totem."

Micah stared. Horror swept through him, and he scrambled for his pocket, fishing out the compass. He opened it, checked the way it was pointing and looked around.

"North," he said softly. "This is right. We aren't dreaming."

"Oh yes, _you're_ awake," Arthur said. "But am I? More importantly... Do I really want to be?"

Micah looked at him, flummoxed. Arthur sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Let me tell you a story, Micah Harper," Arthur said. "Once upon a time, there was a little boy who lived in a town by the sea. He was happy, he was young and he had a brilliant future ahead of him. He loved his family, and adored no one more than his father."

Micah though that he knew where this was going...

"One day, the boy and his father were in a house in a new city," Arthur continued, his face dark. "The father rolled a die-" As he spoke, he lifted his hand, revealing the red die that'd been in his pocket. "-And he _lost_. The poor, _naive_, boy watched his father die. He was never the same after that. Ruined, before he could really be a person."

"Arthur..."

"I don't want to be that boy anymore," Arthur said. "I refuse to be him. I'm taking this... this _thing_, this brainwashing, or memory losing, or whatever you want to call it... And I'm making the best of it."

Micah cocked his head. "By...?"

"By being a new person," Arthur explained. "With a new life, a new perspective, a new mindset, a new _everything_."

"But you're not doing that," Micah said slowly. "You're doing another job."

Arthur smiled. "Am I?"

Micah's face fell as shock rolled through him. "What?"

"Believe me, I fully intended on doing the job," Arthur said smoothly, as if he couldn't understand the amazement and disbelief that Micah was sure was wafting from his very pores. "I believed it would be good for me, maybe bring the 'old me' back. But when I was in the hospital, recovering from yet another stab wound, I thought to myself, 'but why? Why should I try to become the 'old me'? What good could come of it?'" He smiled at Micah, and Micah realized, in that moment, he hadn't truly seen crazy-Arthur before. Not really. Not compared to the way this Arthur smiled. "So when I was in there, I called Kopp. Told him I'd been admitted to a mental hospital, diagnosed with schizophrenia."

"You're not a schizophrenic," Micah said.

Arthur nodded. "Oh, I know. But Kopp doesn't. Anyway, I needed to give him an illness that anyone in the dream would would consider _terminal_. Don't ever, ever, dream with a schizophrenic, Micah. The dream will turn... for lack of a better word, crazy."

"So you're not doing the job," Micah said, still trying to fathom this unbelievable turn of events. "What exactly _are_ you going to do?"

"Who knows?" Arthur beamed. "Isn't it _wonderful?_ I was dead once before, Micah, on January 1st, 2003. My family stopped looking for me, my school friends, everyone. And now, I'm dead again. And no one's looking for me again. Not enemies, not recruiters, not corporations... and I've never been better. I have my family back. Hell, meeting your sister is one of the best things that could've happened to me. Micah, think of what I could _be_. Think of what I could be for her."

"I..." Micah shook his head. "That'd be, I mean, wow, I just..." He exhaled sharply. "You don't sound like yourself, you know that, right?"

"Because I'm _not_ myself!" Arthur cajoled, grinning still so brightly, disarming Micah. "That's the beauty of it! I'm so goddamn _happy_, Micah?"

"Are you sure you aren't just sleep-deprived?" Micah wondered.

Arthur laughed, but shook his head. "That may be part of it, but it certainly isn't the only reason. Do you know when the last time I felt this happy was?"

"Uh, maybe when you were with _Ariadne_?" Micah snapped. "You _told_ me that."

_"When and where were you happiest?" Micah wondered._

_Arthur's lips bent in a smile. "Last November. Ariadne and I were having dinner in my apartment, and I told her I'd cleaned out one of my extra rooms for her to use as a work space, and she told me she loved me. It was the first time she'd ever said that to me."_

Arthur's face fell slightly. "Ah. I am sorry about that. She is, unfortunately... collateral damage."

"Jesus," Micah hissed. "It's like you don't even _care_."

"To care is to court death, in my experience," Arthur said sagely.

"And what about my sister?"

Arthur smirked. "I doubt dating your sister will lead to my death. Unless she's got some ties to the mafia?"

"This isn't a joke," Micah hissed in exasperation. "Oh my _God_. You've officially gone off the deep end."

Arthur's face fell. "I see that you're having a difficult time grasping what this new beginning means to me. All right. My turn, Micah." Micah stared as Arthur abruptly turned tail, walking back down the row of graves, leaving Micah with little choice except to follow him.

Down more paths and trails they went. Micah jogged along behind Arthur's fast gait, still trying to comprehend what was going on. New Arthur was really _New Arthur_. With a beard, a loose tie, insomnia, manic energy... He didn't know where to begin with the changes.

It wasn't long before Arthur was leading him through a new line of graves. He stopped in front of one, waiting. Micah looked at the name, and his breath caught.

"Arthur Beckett Zaleski," he whispered in wonder.

"Staff Sergeant," Arthur continued, sounding bored, reciting from memory what Micah saw on the headstone in front of them. "Purple Heart, Medal of Honor. June 9th, 1981, January 1st, 2003... Blah, blah, blah."

Micah glanced at him. "So who's buried here?"

"No one. Empty casket." Arthur shrugged. "But it's not like they couldn't _not_ bury me here. Not after what I did for them. That, more than anything, would make my family realize I wasn't dead." He looked at Micah, who tried to hide the tears in his eyes, attempting to pass them off as rain. "Don't cry, Micah. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a stone, they honors are just pieces of metal."

"No, no," Micah said. "This is a _big_ deal, Arthur-"

"Oh, trust me," Arthur hissed, annoyed. "When you're in hell, you learn what exactly your priorities are. And let me tell you, what this grave represents certainly isn't one."

"Why did you show me this?" Micah whispered.

"To remind you of what I've learned," Arthur said. "When I was in that pit, in Afghanistan, I realized something, something that has only been reinforced over the years since. Life is death, Micah. Dying is peace."

Micah shook his head. "You don't really-"

"Believe that? Why would I not?" Arthur asked sharply. "You've told me that you know me, Micah. Think about it."

"You said that no matter what happens, you wouldn't regret Ariadne," Micah snapped. "You wouldn't regret dying for her."

"I do not regret death," Arthur said. "I never would. I'm not suicidal, but having come very close to certain death more than once... it isn't something I would shy away from. I wouldn't cry and sob and ask for more time. I'd accept it. I have accepted it in the past..."

"Listen to yourself," Micah growled. "You're right, you're not really _Arthur_. Know why? Because you sound like a goddamn coward right now."

He broke off when Arthur punched him, sending him sprawling to the ground. Micah groaned, rubbing his cheek as he sat up. Arthur stood above him, looking murderous, his shirt and face and hair soaked with the rain.

"You don't get to call me that!" He yelled. "I am _not_ a coward, Micah Harper! Just who do you think _you_ are?"

Micah was sure he'd never seen Arthur this furious, not even when he'd walked in on Arthur's private dream, in the house in his mind he'd made for himself and Ariadne. (The house, that he knew, Arthur must not be able to access anymore.) Arthur glowered down at him, practically shaking with rage.

"You're nothing," Arthur seethed. "You can't possibly understand who I am, who I was, what happened to me to make me this way, this _supposed mad man_. You're all trying so god damn hard to do what's right for me, that no one is stopping to ask what I want. What _I _need."

Micah opened his mouth and closed it quickly. He recalled what Ariadne had told him, of her plan, her effort to save Arthur, something she was going to talk to him about. But he studied Arthur's spitting face and decided against it.

"You think that you can just show me your friend's grave and I'll suddenly decide I need your help?" Arthur demanded. "You don't hold that kind of power over me, Micah. No one does. Maybe you, or Ariadne, or Cobb, or _Eames_ did once, but not anymore. I'm finally free now. I get to make my own life, my own decisions. And _you_... You're a scared little boy trying to fit into a world he can't possibly ever be strong enough for. You are _weak_. You don't deserve to dream. You can't handle it." He smirked. "It will eat you alive. And that little boy from Texas, who uses his father's compass to know where he is going, because he can't figure it out himself? He'll be the first to go. You may pity me, Micah, but you should know that _I _pity _you_."

With that said, Arthur turned around and stalked away. Micah felt himself breathing hard, attempting to process Arthur's words, the hate he'd thrown at him unflinchingly. He watched Arthur's retreating back, until-

"_...uses his father's compass to know where he is going..."_

Micah froze.

_Arthur smiled. "Why is your totem a compass?"_

_"I used to go hunting with my dad," Micah explained, fishing the compass from his pocket. He opened it, watching the needle swirl wildly in circles. "And every time we went out, he'd ask me over and over again, 'do you have your compass, where is your compass?' I forgot it once and I've never heard the end of it. It reminds me that I need to know where I'm going, whether in a dream or in reality."_

"Impossible," Micah whispered. That was a memory from a dream. A dream where Arthur had taught him more about fighting, where he'd sat Micah down for a game of twenty questions as a red sun set over an ocean. A game Arthur played in an effort to win Micah's forgiveness for almost killing him...

Micah lurched to his feet, gripping Arthur's headstone for support.

"How did you know?" He cried.

Arthur kept going. Trembling, Micah yelled, "How did you know it was my father's compass?"

That made Arthur stop. Micah watched as he stood stalk straight, his back still to Micah. Very slowly, he turned around. Even from thirty feet away, Micah could recognize the fear that spread over his face.

"I..." Arthur hesitated. "I don't know."

Micah stumbled, trying to walk to him, still dazed by the punch and the shock at what had been said. Fifteen feet away, Arthur lifted a hand to stop him.

"Wait," he hissed. Micah halted, waiting...

Arthur fell to his knees.

Micah cried out, diving forward and collapsing next to Arthur. The older man was groaning into the grass, clutching fistfuls of it in white-knuckled hands. Hesitantly, Micah touched his shoulder.

"Arthur?" He whispered.

Arthur lifted his face slightly, turning to Micah. The shock knocked Micah over again.

For one moment, one blissful tiny moment, faster than a blink, he saw _recognition_ in Arthur's dark eyes. Like a single light had shined through a window, before being abruptly turned off. Arthur closed his eyes tightly, moaning.

"A-Arthur," he stuttered. "Oh my God, you're still there..."

Arthur cried out, gasping. Micah leaned forward, wrapping an arm around the trembling man's shoulders and whispering into his ear.

"_I'm here,_" he whispered. "_I'm here, and I'll wait. We'll all wait. Come back, Arthur. Come back to reality_."

He was suddenly shoved aside. Arthur was rising, resting on his knees still, pressing his face into his hands. Micah stared, hopeful...

But when Arthur looked at him again, his eyes were the same once more; devoid of anything for Micah except the knowledge of who he was.

"What was that?" Micah demanded.

Arthur looked at the grass. "A memory." He rose to his feet and Micah practically catapulted himself to stand next to him.

"You remembered me," Micah said breathlessly. "I saw it, in your eyes... I saw _you_. You're still there..." He began to laugh, not unlike Arthur's mad laugh. "This is... phenomenal. Can't you see? You, the _old_ you, is bursting at the seams of your conscious. He won't stay there forever."

Arthur didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, his voice was cold as ice.

"He might," he murmured.

Micah stilled, the smile still on his face. "What?"

"He brings a world of agony," Arthur said. "I can't... I don't _know_ anything about him, except this. He is torture. That's all he is now. I can feel it, whenever something... comes through."

"Like that memory?"

"It wasn't even a memory," Arthur said. "Not a full one. It's just something I... recovered. A lone fact I used to know, that got through... something. A wall that was placed there by Volkov..." He trailed off.

"What else has come through?"

Arthur shrugged. "Fractions. Figments. Your compass... Cobb was bleeding... Eames and eggplants."

"Eames and..." Micah shook his head, bewildered. "O-Okay. Maybe not everything is real. But you knew. My compass, it was my father's, and you remembered that. How long has this been happening?"

"The first night in the hospital," Arthur said. "My voice, but it wasn't me, it wasn't mine. _Mr. Mellark_."

"Your military buddy," Micah recalled. "Yeah, you met up with him back in L.A."

"Maybe this is Volkov's final revenge," Arthur contemplated. "Dangling these little figments in front of me, to make me think there's more coming... And maybe it will come." He glanced at Micah. "But not the way you expect."

"What do you mean?"

"It'll be like... a dam breaking," Arthur murmured. "I don't know what will come with it. I don't want to know. You and the others, you all believe there is an 'Old Arthur' and a 'New Arthur.' What if that's true?" He turned to face Micah, and Micah's heart stopped at the pure, unadulterated fear in Arthur's eyes. "What if there are two of us? A past and a present?"

"What if?" Micah asked.

Arthur groaned. "Then I really will be a fucking schizophrenic, won't I? Worse than that: I'll officially become insane. Because he wouldn't be just a personality. Maybe that I could live with. We'd be... the same."

"Is it accelerating?" Micah asked. "Are you remembering more things, more quickly?"

Arthur shook his head. "It's sporadic. But I've noticed it worsens when I interact with any of you. Like you're... a trigger. And you need to understand something, very clearly; they are not _my memories_. They are his. I have no... space, no grasp, no ability to reason with them. They're eroding my mind, warping it from the inside out."

"I..." Micah gaped. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Arthur sighed. "It's... hard to explain. But you _are_ a trigger, Micah. And I don't want to even imagine what would happen if you were a catalyst. Yet another reason why I need to leave..."

Micah stared, as Arthur began to stride away. He scurried after him. "What? No, no, if it's getting worse-"

Arthur spun around so fast, Micah ran into him and fell back to the ground, this time landing on the wet asphalt of the path.

"Do you not listen, Micah?" He asked harshly. "Leave. Me. Alone. You, and the others; you all need to realize that your efforts to help me are only hindering me. Ariadne tried, and I ended up in a mental hospital. You tried, and I nearly had a brain aneurysm. Would you like to continue this process? I can tell you, right now, how it ends. If you loved me as you claim you do, well... Your choice should be clear."

Micah felt breathless. Arthur turned away but stopped, looking back at Micah. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, tossing several bills to Micah's feet, where they became drenched in the rain.

"For the taxi back to Union Station," Arthur said. "Your ticket's round trip, so you should be fine, yes?"

"Where are you going?"

"The airport," Arthur said. "I'm taking a plane back to New York. I'd rather not risk a potentially, literally, mind-blowing _neuralgia_ halfway to Baltimore. Good night, Micah."

Micah watched Arthur as he walked away, fearlessly disappearing into the dark night. Micah felt exhausted, like he'd run a marathon. He slowly got to his feet, his body achy from all the falls and the emotional distress. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone as he began to stumble down the path.

"_Hello?_"

"Ariadne," Micah said into the receiver as soon as she spoke. "Get Cobb and Eames. There's something I have to tell you."

**review, please**

**if you ever get the chance, I highly recommend taking the train from Penn Station (NYC) to Union Station in Washington. You pass through some amazing areas, including Baltimore and Philadelphia. there's something fascinating about getting on a huge train in the middle of Manhattan and traveling underground until the city is no longer above.**

**also highly recommend visiting Arlington. a profound, overwhelming, moving place. I've been there twice, and I cried both times.**

**next chapter: a musical departure, Helena fully explains the psychology of what Arthur is experiencing and what the repercussions of it are (any guesses?) Ari and Arthur have that talk, and Arthur makes a big decision...**


	25. Stay

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**reviewers are out of this world fabulous- ****_PrettyPrettyPlease_****: there's a lot of hate for New Arthur, so you're not alone! that's so neat you love Helena, I love that… ****_Lauraa-x_****: yes, exactly correct on what Arthur is thinking. do you think it changes Micah's opinion? thank you for the kind words re: my AN. it truly means so much to me. ****_Knuckiducki_****: ESKIMO. That was a long review, I loved all of it. thanks for catching up on the other chapters! I wondered where you'd gone… and great job at catching the farmers market reference! ****_In. Blue. 85_****: NYC at Christmastime is, no other word for it, magical. just wonderful. I don't disagree with Micah's assessment of Arthur's cowardice, but definitely understand why it enraged Arthur so. realizing Micah's right would be very emotionally difficult for Arthur. ****_Lazarus76_****: thank you! hope you're doing well. x ****_ . _****: epic bromance! which do you want to go to? do you live on the east coast!?**

**204 REVIEWS! Thank you thank you thank you. your encouragement and thoughts are something I treasure greatly, and I especially love how your comments can inspire me! I'm not even kidding; some parts of this story may never have happened if not for your reviews. xx**

**and the DELAY. ugh. I think after you read this chapter you'll see why it took so long. lot of thinking...**

**chapter title from the song by Rihanna; I've noticed that the older I get, the more I enjoy her music. whatever that means. especially this song…**

Stay

Friday, July 12, 2013: New York City, New York: Helena Cross' House: Ariadne

Ariadne surveyed Helena as the old woman poured herself a cup of boiling hot tea. Even though the thermostat outside read 92 degrees (and was climbing), Helena remained undaunted in the face of hot beverages. She'd offered Ariadne a cup of tea, but she'd declined, stating that water was just fine.

Normally, after putting their drinks together, Helena would immediately jump into whatever lesson she was giving Ariadne that day. They'd begin with discussion, where Helena would essentially lecture Ariadne on what was ahead, and allowed Ariadne to ask questions. After she was certain Ariadne understood, Helena would get out her PASIV and they'd enter Ariadne's mind for a demonstration.

Today, however, was different.

Ariadne had just breathlessly told Helena about what Micah had learned the day before, on a trip to Arlington National Cemetery with Arthur. For Ariadne, this revelation was nothing short of a real breakthrough. Literally; Old Arthur, _her_ Arthur, was clawing away at whatever prison Volkov had created for him. He was fighting, to make his way back to her.

_"Promise me something."_

_"Yes?"_

_"Tomorrow. Promise me that you will try. That you won't just lay down and let them kill you. Try to survive."_

"_I will. I'll try."_

He was still trying to live, for her. Even lost in his mind, he refused to give up, to leave her for good. The very thought made her eyes water and her heart swell.

In the hours since Micah had dropped this game changing revelation, Ariadne had felt lighter. She'd felt more relaxed, more confident, more rejuvenated. She knew the reason why was that she'd just been given her first solid piece of hope that Arthur could be saved. But to someone else, the reason behind her sudden cheeriness was debatable.

Eames.

What was she to do about Eames? She definitely didn't regret sleeping with him, not at all. And he'd certainly made her feel better, warmer, just generally more… _human_. It'd been four days since _that night_, and she'd seen Eames at least once every day, and had only seen Arthur when she'd come by Micah's apartment to meet the student for dinner. Arthur had been lounging on the couch, watching a generic crime drama. He'd looked up when she'd entered and had nodded. That'd been the day before he and Micah went to Washington…

Eames, of course, knew what had happened in the capital. Cobb did as well, as Micah had gathered them all together to launch into explicit detail of what Arthur had done in front of the graves of Seth Erickson and himself. She, Cobb and Eames had all been anxious and bewildered, waiting at her apartment for Micah to return from Penn Station. When he'd called Ariadne and said he had something to tell her, all he would say was, "_New Arthur isn't anything at all that we thought he was_."

That had been a very vague statement, but Micah refused to elaborate, explaining that he'd enlighten them when he could give more complex and thorough answers. Which he'd done, at one a.m. in the morning, in Ariadne's apartment.

The shock of Micah's revelation had hung over them for hours. _Arthur was remembering? Why those memories? What exactly triggers them, and is there more than one? _

_Will he remember more? Will he remember how close he was to Micah, the power plant, Ariadne-_

When Micah had gushed to them, his tone one of awe and wonder, that for one tiny moment he _knew_ that Arthur had recognized him, known him, Ariadne's heart had stopped.

There was nothing in the world she wouldn't give for Arthur to know her, no matter how short the time. To see the recollection in his auburn eyes, followed by a split second of the love and commitment she'd missed so much. She felt almost bitter towards Micah. They all knew that Arthur and Micah had a special bond, but why had the Old Arthur come out for Micah? After the concentrated efforts she'd made to jog his memory?

Was he hiding? She wondered. Was he aware, even now, of what his new counterpart was doing to her? The constant hurt he inflicted upon her? Did her Arthur know, and just couldn't bear to acknowledge it, knowing he had no power to prevent any of it?

Ariadne's mind could go over these questions for hours on end. She had to force herself to become distracted, whether through reading or watching television or sleeping.

In the present, Helena set her cup of tea down. Ariadne reflected once more on how unusual her response was.

Normally, after Ariadne offered a tidbit, Helena would talk nonstop, giving her own opinion. But now, after Ariadne had thoroughly told her what had happened yesterday- _he's regressing, he's still there_- Helena was silent.

Ariadne coughed meekly. "Helena… Did you-"

"I heard you, of course," Helena muttered sharply. She rested her face on veined petite hands.

"Do you know what's happening?"

Helena's lips twisted. "Unfortunately."

Ariadne froze. "What do you mean? What's wrong?"

"If what your friend says is true," Helena said slowly, "if Arthur is, in fact, regaining some cognition and recalling things that happened to him, memories that Nikolai should've buried… Well, it means that it's time."

"Time," Ariadne repeated, confused.

Helena looked up at her. "It's time. If you are going to attempt to save him, you must do so immediately."

"What?" Ariadne gasped. "But why? Isn't this good? I mean, shouldn't I let him continue to do this on his own? Maybe he doesn't need me…"

She trailed off. She wanted to believe that Arthur could do this himself, recover himself, drag himself out of his mental hell… All the better. She still didn't know how she would even go about convincing New Arthur to undergo the process Helena had been faithfully teaching her. Any chance of not doing it-convincing Arthur, not to mention the actual task- would be wonderful.

"You fail to grasp the true peril of what is happening here," Helena murmured. "Arthur's sanity is in grave danger."

"Then explain," Ariadne snapped.

Helena paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Then she stood, shuffling to the large bookcase that dominated the room. Ariadne watched as she plucked a small box from the shelf and returned to her chair. The box was orange and made of wood, inscribed with foreign symbols.

Helena smiled. "I got this in Panama. A memento."

"Okay," Ariadne said slowly. "But what does-"

"This does." Helena opened the box and lifted out two silver cylindrical shaped objects that were so dark gray, they appeared black. She rested one in each palm and held them out to Ariadne.

"Do you know what these are, my dear?"

"Um…" Ariadne frowned. "They look a little like these toy magnets my brother used to have."

Helena smiled. "_Toys_. To children only. These are called rare-earth magnets. The strongest type of magnet the planet has to offer. They are found in everyday items, like hard drives, wind turbines, flashlights. They make sure these items work.

"Now," Helena continued. "The thing about these magnets is that they are not only strong, but strong with each other." She tapped the magnets together by their tops and lifted one; the other hung off the end, perilously, but sturdily. "They can co-exist like this forever, barely touching. But, if you were to change their alignment…" She flipped them around so they were side by side and attempted to push them together. The force between them prevented her from doing so. Helena sat back with a sigh, looking at Ariadne expectantly.

Ariadne frowned. "Magnets."

Helena smirked. "I am not making myself clear. The magnets are a metaphor for Arthur's two… let's say, personalities. The Old Arthur and the New one."

"They can't exist together?"

"Oh, no, you misunderstand me," Helena said sharply. She got up again and returned to the bookcase, this time opening a cabinet and procuring a three-dimensional model of a human brain. Ariadne pulled the table so it rested between their chairs, and Helena placed the brain on it. It was fully diagramed, sections designated with what looked like Sharpie, titled with things like "temporal lobe" and "hippocampus."

"How much do you know about the brain, Ariadne?"

Ariadne smiled sheepishly. "Not much. I took a few psychology classes when I was doing my undergraduate degree, and then I've learned some from Cobb and Arthur."

Helena smirked. "Do you understand the theory of the two hemispheres of the brain?"

"Yes," Ariadne said. "The creative side versus the logical."

"An admirable theory," Helena agreed. "But mistaken when stated like that. One side of the brain is not the sole place that houses creativity. And vice versa. What I want to draw your attention to is this."

She ran a finger over the center of the brain. Ariadne leaned over, noticing that there appeared to be a small space separating the two halves.

"This is the corpus callosum," Helena explained. "A band of nerves that joins together the two parts of the brain. In severe cases, usually to do with epilepsy, the corpus callosum is severed, breaking off the connection. The patient will continue to live as normal, for the most part. Except the two parts of the brain will no longer be able to react together. Depending on where in the brain one's speech-control center is located, the patient may not be able to physically say what they are seeing on one side of their body. And in very extreme cases, sometimes doctors must remove one half of the brain."

Ariadne stared. "That… That happens?"

"Sometimes. The patient can survive with minimal impact. Some people are even born without one half of the brain and they are, typically, just fine."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

Helena lifted the two magnets, aligning them with one side of the brain each.

"We previously believed that Arthur's memories had been completely destroyed," Helena continued. "The metaphor here is that would mean Arthur was living with one half of his brain. He was, for all intents and purposes, stable, but missing part of himself. A part that he knew he missed, having once had it.

"However, the point is he _could_ live like that."

"And now?"

Helena frowned.

"Your friend, Micah, is now suggesting that the Old Arthur is in fact still present in the brain, just laying dormant. Until recently, he could not interact with his New self. He could see everything that was happening…" She set the box in front of the right area of the brain. "But he could not describe or truly interact with it." She indicated the right side of the brain. "Like his corpus callosum had been severed, separating these two halves of himself."

Helena continued, "Which, again, would've been fine, something he could've lived with. But your friend now believes, and I worry that he is right, that Arthur's selves-the Old and the New-are not quite so separate." She ran her finger down the line again.

Ariadne blinked. "But what's wrong with that? Doesn't that mean he's just… full? Really himself?"

"It would be. If it were not two separate Arthurs."

Ariadne frowned. "Explain."

"As I said, logic and creativity are not exclusive to one side of the brain. There are bits and pieces of each in the other. But there are not any, none, similarities between Old Arthur and New Arthur. They are, for all intents and purposes… different people."

She lifted the magnets again. "If Old Arthur had stayed dormant and unresponsive, like this…" She touched the tips of the magnets together. "There would be peace in his mind. It would be one, controlling, or rather, ignoring, the other." She dragged one magnet down the table, the second one still attached and following. "He could live normally for the rest of his life.

"But we now believe that not only is Old Arthur resurfacing… He is fighting for control."

Helena broke the magnets apart and attempted to force them together.

"Just like you cannot recreate the corpus callosum and reconnect the two hemispheres of the brain, and like you cannot force two opposing magnets to stay in serenity with each other… You cannot combine the two Arthurs."

Ariadne sat in deep thought, pondering what Helena had just told her. "So you're saying…"

"If it was just New Arthur, he'd be fine," Helena murmured. "Or just Old Arthur. But Old Arthur is breaking through, forcing himself to join New Arthur in the conscious mind." She smiled darkly. "This is not Dissociative Personality Disorder. These are not just personalities. These are the same identities, with inherently different functions."

"Because Volkov has made Arthur a different person."

"Exactly," Helena confirmed. "With different goals, dreams, decisions. New Arthur sees the world very differently. I'm sure I do not have to offer you examples."

Ariadne scowled, thinking of how Arthur was behaving differently, with her, their friends, Bethany… Hell, he even looked different.

"Two people, in one mind…" Helena shook her head. "He faces only agony, if the two share one conscious mind."

"Mentally?"

"Physically too, I imagine," Helena said thoughtfully. "The brain was not made to host two people. Obviously I can't say for certain what is happening in his brain… But I imagine there could be dire things occurring. Blood clots, tumors… The brain trying to right itself, to block out one of the offending forces. In this case, I think the only safe thing to assume is that it is rebelling against the Old Arthur, the lesser one, the one that is pushing to get through. Setting up forces, whatever lone corner Old Arthur has been hiding…"

Helena touched the brain lightly. "The funny thing about memory is that we know very little about it. We can understand the basics; the process of encoding, retrieving… But as to the physical _location_, it's a mystery. The hippocampus seems to act as a train station for memory, but it is not the lone place for storage. Old Arthur is, essentially, an errant clot of memories. I doubt he is only sectioned off in one area of the brain. Especially now… He would be trying to insert himself in as many places as possible, in the hope that he will have enough control to make himself physically present."

Ariadne's mind went into overdrive, imagining Arthur waking up one day as his old self. She imagined the joy on his face, how he'd race to shave off that stupid beard, and then immediately set off to find her.

And then the revelation of Helena's words struck her.

"His brain is…"

"Essentially destroying itself," Helena agreed. "Keep in mind, this is mere conjecture. But I do believe Arthur is in very serious danger."

"What would happen, if…"

"If Old Arthur continued to break through?" Helena sighed. "Assuming his brain could physically handle it, the mental connotations are… alarming. Speech, thought, memory, vision… It could all be usurped, upended. No clear controller, two different points of view, desires… He would be insane. No chance of recovery."

Ariadne bit her lip. "Couldn't we just… just force one of them back?"

Helena smiled. "If only. To do so would require doing what Nikolai did in the first place, and then some. Nikolai only had to bury Old Arthur, creating a New one in the process. You would have to destroy the Old one, and hope that you left enough to _have_ the New one. In the process of annihilating Old Arthur, you could sever his ability to function in different ways. He could become, essentially, a vegetable." She sighed. "Assuming, of course, that his brain could handle another hijacking like that. Which I very much doubt it could."

Ariadne's throat was dry. "What can I do?"

"What I've been training you to. Ariadne, it's time. If you are going to enter Arthur's mind, you will need to do it now."

"_Now_? But…" Ariadne shook her head. "I'm not ready!"

"No, you aren't," Helena agreed. "But this is your only shot. Now that your Arthur is beginning to break through… It won't be long before her creates enough damage to ensure he can never be repaired. Not you, not me… Not anyone."

"How about you?" Ariadne asked desperately. "You know exactly what needs to be done. Could you do it?"

Helena laughed. "Not at all! I have told you this, Ariadne. It's much easier to ruin the mind, to create chaos and upend it, as Nikolai did. The challenge is putting it back together. That requires someone familiar with the subject, who knows the subject enough to bring back the memories, to guide…"

Ariadne sighed, recognizing the truth in Helena's words. "I know."

"I am sorry."

"When?" Ariadne croaked. "How much time do I have?"

"I would wait no more than… forty-eight hours."

"That's just two days!"

"Long enough as it is. Arthur has implied that the memories are beginning to come more frequently, and judging by the physical reaction he had with Micah… Well, it sounds to me like your Arthur is getting close. He could burst through any day now, and shatter what little sanity he has left." Helena looked at her very seriously. "The smallest splinter could send it all crashing down. Then, he would be lost. And no amount of somnacin, no number of levels, not even Limbo… would bring him back."

Ariadne swallowed. "Oh, God…"

"Go home," Helena said gently. "Rest, take some time to process what I have just told you. Talk to your friends, and most importantly, Arthur. And then, when you have decided, call me. Remember, Ariadne; no matter if you fail or not, you are accompanying me to Russia, to find Nikolai."

* * *

On her way to Arthur and Micah's, she sent out the text: _I'm telling him. Please come._

Ariadne knew they would understand, that she was finally going to confront Arthur, to tell him what she'd been doing. She needed the support from them now, to help her convince Arthur that this was something he needed. And to try to convince him that it wasn't just for her benefit.

Thinking along those lines, she suddenly realized what she really needed to show him. She took a quick detour, returning to her apartment.

* * *

Ariadne had barely knocked on the front door of Arthur's apartment when Micah opened it, looking solemn. His expression changed to one of concern when he saw her hopeless expression, the tears that had barely dried on her face.

"Ariadne," he murmured. "What... Are you okay?"

She sniffled. "Uh huh. It's just, uh... Helena told me some things..." She bit her lip, forcing herself to meet Micah's eyes. "It doesn't look good, Micah."

Micah immediately pulled her into a hug. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder, taking deep breaths in an effort to quench her tears. The sound of feet made her look up, peering over Micah's shoulder.

Arthur was facing her, hands in the pockets of his jeans, wearing a plain blue t-shirt.

"Hello," he said softly.

She twisted her face into a grimace. "Hey."

Micah let her go and she reluctantly did the same. Right on cue, Cobb stepped through the door behind her. He caught one glance at her face, and his turned to one of bewilderment.

"Wait," Ariadne said before he could speak. He swallowed his exclamation and nodded.

While Micah and Cobb went into the kitchen, Ariadne hesitantly approached Arthur, who was surveying the scene warily.

"What's going on?" He asked.

"There are things we need to talk about," Ariadne said gently. "And it isn't going to be fun, or pleasant, for any of us, but it needs to happen." He looked like he was going to speak, but she cut him off. "Please, Arthur. Just listen, please. You will get to give your opinion and make your choice, but... For now, just listen to me."

He studied her, taking in her watery eyes and quivering lip, and gave her one slow nod.

She exhaled. "Thank you." They continued to stare at each other, until Eames arrived.

"I've got half a bottle of whiskey, and..." He fumbled into his jacket pocket. "Two bars of chocolate. Enough provisions for this discussion?"

Ariadne half-laughed. "There isn't any thing that would be enough, but I appreciate your effort."

"I try," he said warmly. He kissed her on the cheek and went into the living room. Ariadne glanced at Arthur and noticed his raised eyebrows before he looked away, walking after Eames.

As soon as they were all settled (everyone cradling glasses of whiskey, save for Arthur, who continued to abstain from alcohol) Arthur spoke.

"What is this about?"

Everyone looked at Ariadne. She took a deep breath, and spoke.

She reminded Arthur of Helena, that Helena had been teaching her how to save him. Arthur calmly nodded, recalling the conversation where she'd told him this, the same one that had led to his self-stabbing. As she spoke, Ariadne recalled a small comment Arthur had made then that resonated now:

_"He's not coming back."_

_"How do you know that?"_

_"Because I'm here, now. And I don't remember him at all_."

Two halves, indeed.

Ariadne skated over the specifics, saying that she couldn't divulge the exact process, as the crux of the plan was that Arthur's unconscious didn't know how to thwart and attack her. He nodded in understanding.

"So you see," Ariadne finished. "I can save you. I can bring your memories back, and I can cure you of all your problems. Like the insomnia, and the headaches, and... well, the revulsion towards me, and Micah."

Arthur considered this. "But, you said... we could die. You, and me."

"But you said you didn't care," Micah interjected.

"I never said that," Arthur snapped. "I said that should I face death, I wouldn't fight, that I would accept it. This isn't anything like that. This would be knowingly going into something that could very well kill me."

"You'd have your memories back," Cobb said quietly. Ariadne glanced at him. She knew how torn he was, now that he could realize what having the Old Arthur back meant; once Arthur remembered his betrayal, he could very well lose his best friend, again.

Arthur looked at Ariadne. "And you know how I feel about that."

Her heart twisted, remembering his suggestion that they were better off without each other. "I remember. But that was then, and now..."

They noticed the way her face fell, how she looked down. Eames reached over and squeezed her hand.

"Ari?" He asked softly.

"What did Helena say?" Micah wondered.

Ariadne shook her head, turning to Arthur. This was his reality, after all. "Basically, you are a walking time bomb. Old Arthur is breaking down whatever confines Volkov put him in, chipping away at whatever separates him from _you_. If he breaks through, your brain could split. You can't exist together. You're two very different people, not personalities; one brain couldn't handle it. Your brain would literally shatter."

Silence fell. She ignored the shock and horror she could imagine on the others' faces and focused solely on the man she spoke of. He stared back at her, digesting her words.

"Why can't I push him back?" He wondered.

"Helena described it like memory," Ariadne said. "She doubts Old Arthur is just inhabiting one space of your brain, but he is in fact, several spaces. If we tried to bury him, we could bury those areas of your body he is beginning to have control of. You could lose your ability to function." She frowned. "She also compared the situation to magnets, and the... corpus callosum."

The Psychology majors all nodded in sudden understanding, while Cobb still looked confused. Ariadne raised an eyebrow, indicating she'd explain more later.

"There isn't really a choice then, is there?" Arthur said quietly. "I refuse to let you into my mind, and eventually, it destroys itself. I agree, and let you attempt to return the memories, and I die anyway."

"Maybe not-" Micah snapped, but Cobb shushed him, turning to Ariadne.

"What's the difference? Bringing back his memories your way- wouldn't that be like bringing the Old Arthur back into the front, essentially putting the two halves together again?"

Ariadne shook her head. "Volkov's separation was brutal and concise. He stripped the memories away, taking Old Arthur with them, and crafted a new one. I would bring back the memories, and Old Arthur, and... _mesh_ them together."

"Create a brand new one?" Eames asked.

"Yeah."

"That's a lot of Arthurs," he commented. Arthur smirked.

"I don't want you to think you have no choice," Ariadne said, facing Arthur. "This isn't an extraction, or an inception. I will have to walk you through your mind, through everything. You need to want it, too."

He frowned. "I'm not sure I can do that. Not since..."

Since that fight in her apartment, where he'd decided he was better without her. Since that visit to Arlington, where he'd revealed that he was leaving so he could survive. He had broken himself from her, torn the connection between them, demolished any desire to keep them together. And he'd done so, in such a way, that he'd made it seem possible and the best option.

Ariadne looked at the other three. "Could you give us ten minutes?"

Micah and Cobb immediately stood. Eames was slower, more nervous. He gripped her hand.

"Is it safe?" He looked at Arthur.

"We'll wait in my room," Micah said. "That way you can have privacy, while we're close enough if..." He frowned. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Yes. Thank you," Ariadne said.

She and Arthur watched as the three disappeared down the hall. Ariadne waited until Micah's bedroom door had closed before rising to her feet and darting to the television, her purse swinging around her.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked.

She reached into her bag, pulling out the DVD case. "Sit on the couch, please. There's something I'd like you to see." She waited until she heard him sink onto the cushions behind her before she pressed play.

On the screen, the Arthur from nearly two years previously smiled. "Hello, Ariadne. If you're watching this, then it means I died."

Ariadne slid to the side, folding her arms around her legs. On the couch, Arthur looked shocked, taking in the image of his past self with wide eyes.

Ariadne refused to watch the video. She'd only viewed it a handful of times, and each time had ended in calamity, with her a sobbing wreck. She couldn't be that weak girl now. Not when Arthur's life hung in the balance. She watched the real Arthur instead, as he stared at the television in silence.

"I feel like I could talk to you forever, but I'll stop now. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you; always. Bye, Ariadne."

The DVD shut off, and Ariadne turned off the television. She swallowed, twisting to face Arthur from the floor.

He was looking at his feet, hands in his hair, rocking softly back and forth. Alarm rushed through her, as she realized she might've triggered a memory in him, and she staggered to her feet, sprinting to his side.

"Arthur-"

He lifted his head, and her hopes were dashed. No recognition; not her Arthur. But there was something else...

"I loved you," he murmured.

"You did," she confirmed slowly. "And I loved you. Still do."

"Always?"

Her throat felt very thick. "Always."

He looked devastated. "I want so badly to be happy, Ariadne."

Ariadne looked away, her heart cracking. This was his rejection. This was him telling her that he was leaving, choosing whatever time he had left, until he succumbed to a long-postponed death that he welcomed...

His hands on her face forced her to look back at him.

"I see now," he murmured. "Maybe that's what it took. Their words, your emphatic expressions... They weren't enough. I had to see it from myself."

"See what?" She croaked.

Arthur looked sad. "That he loved you. That even now, he's crawling back to you, trying to survive, so he can see you again. To ask for your forgiveness, and..."

"And?"

He swallowed, his eyes shimmering. "To tell you that he loves you."

"He told me that he would try to survive," Ariadne said. "That he would try to come back to me. He promised that he would never leave me, that he'd always be with me."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "I think we can agree that he's keeping those promises."

Ariadne sobbed, and Arthur lifted her face again. They looked at each other. Ariadne memorized his face, the creases around his eyes, lone freckle on his cheek...

"He died for you once," Arthur whispered. "Do you think he would risk it again?"

She sobbed again, smiling. "Well, I think he just told us."

"'I don't regret a thing,'" Arthur quoted himself from the video.

Ariadne nodded, sniffling. "Yeah. Something like that."

They continued to stare at each other. Ariadne drank him in, wondering if this was it, if this was truly the end of them, no more loopholes, no more dreams or levels, that they would end their relationship here, in a dingy little apartment in Manhattan, the truth finally laid bare...

Very slowly, Arthur pressed his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes. The next, single, word he spoke froze her heart and opened a new door, into a blistering, unknown future:

"Okay."

**review, please**

**hopefully all that wacky psychology and magnet metaphors made sense. if not, don't be afraid to send me a PM. I'll explain as best as I can.**

**next chapter: and we enter Arthur's mind, and all that entails. note: the character POV for the next chapter or two will jump from character to character.**


	26. Demons

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.**

**reviewers are a lovely cut above the rest- ****_Lauraa-x_****: yes, he really isn't a fan of breaking promises. oh man more tears are coming, I expect… yes, New Arthur isn't completely heartless! yay I'm glad the psychology made sense, thanks! ****_Lazarus76_****: thank you! I try. ****_music. is. my. heroine_****: I'm glad you worked out that I tried to reply last chapter. (where? if you don't mind me asking… I lived in New York for a bit.) which episode of House, and how so? and BROMANCE 4EVAH! ****_In. Blue. 85_****: you're studying Psychology, right? if so, I'm thrilled this worked out, I only took one Psychology class in high school…and well predicted with the DVD! ****_cinema therapy_****: hey, what's up? navigation ahead! and hmm might get somewhere on that second part… ****_mbarca_****: welcome aboard! reading your reviews made me feel so happy! very grateful.**

**I've been looking forward to writing the end of this chapter for a very long time… (BUT DON'T JUMP AHEAD, READ THE WHOLE THING PLEASE)**

**There are a lot of line breaks to help clarify what is happening. bear with me, please.**

**chapter title from the song by Imagine Dragons, perfect for this.**

Demons

Sunday, July 14, 2013: New York City, New York: Ariadne's Apartment: Arthur/Ariadne/Micah

He sat in still silence, staring at nothing. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the persistent sunlight that had plagued Arthur's mornings for months, instantly waking him, the light sleeper he was. Normally, he welcomed the feel of the sun on his skin, a rigid shot of Vitamin D to stable his mind. Today, however, it only brought trepidation.

Arthur was sitting on his neatly made bed. The room that he'd barely called his own was clean and empty, the meager belongings he'd managed to accumulate during his short time there were already packed in the suitcase and duffel bag that rested at his feet. He'd only had to ship one package of clothes to Australia, and would bring the rest of his things to the airport with him, tomorrow.

If he survived today, that is.

He didn't feel scared, per se. He felt numb and anxious, two feelings that had been the only really consistent things in his life. The difference was that now, accompanying those feelings, was a subdued kind of… _hope_.

Arthur was not one to let hope cloud his judgment, nor any emotion really. But try as he might, he couldn't force the feeling to go away. Not since he'd stared at himself in a backwards mirror, and seen a deep love and commitment that he'd never imagined he would be able to feel.

He'd told himself that he believed the others, and Ariadne, when they told him that he loved her. But the sudden epiphany of yesterday had pushed it all aside. There was only one person who could convince him of what he'd perceived to be the impossible: himself.

Of course, he couldn't always trust himself.

Arthur ran a hand over his face, feeling the bristly stubble that marred his usually shaven face. He couldn't say for sure why he was abandoning the style and appearance he'd worn for years. He told himself it was just a desire to try out something new. But deep down, he knew that wasn't just it.

It was just another example of his decision to disappear.

Arthur didn't believe he would ever be able to stop running. He was convinced there would always be a reason to keep leaving, to always look over his shoulder. There would never be a chance to settle down, to have a life that involved a ring on his left hand, a house with a picket fence, maybe even a child with innocent brown eyes. On some level, he'd known this his whole life, even as a child himself.

He'd never had a future.

He was always going to be the wanted man, the fugitive and murderer with a hundred creditors on his tail, waiting to drag him to hell. Though, he mused, he couldn't imagine a place more hellish than this one.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his morbid thoughts.

Bethany carefully pushed the door open, sticking her head through the gap and offered Arthur a warm smile.

"Hey."

"Hi," Arthur murmured. She crossed the room and sank down onto the bed next to him.

She nodded towards his bags. "Packed and ready, I see."

"Yeah. My flight is leaving tonight, you know…"

Bethany nodded sadly. "I'm sorry I can't take you to the airport."

"Don't be," Arthur said hurriedly. "You're teaching lower-income children how to dance. I think that gives you a free pass."

She smiled. "Thanks. It's weird to think I won't see you for a couple weeks."

"Mm-hmm."

As previously determined, Bethany was flying to Australia on July 30th, only a couple days after her teaching job ended. Arthur and Bethany had already hashed out the details of when and where, and Arthur knew her flight information and which gate to pick her up at Sydney Airport.

"And you'll take me all over Australia, right?" She chuckled.

"Definitely. We can go snorkeling along the Great Barrier Reef, backpack through the Outback, tour the Whitsunday Islands, and of course, visit the Sydney Opera House."

Bethany beamed. "That sounds wonderful."

"I think so."

"So what are you and Micah doing before going to the airport?"

Bethany had a recital for some of her students tonight in Brooklyn, giving Arthur the perfect excuse to not see her before his flight, which wasn't scheduled to depart JFK International Airport until tomorrow morning. But with Bethany believed Arthur was leaving that night, it allowed him and the others to begin the…treatment.

They didn't have another word for it, so Arthur had coined Ariadne's process of going through his memories as a "treatment." Something to rejoin the parts of his brain and self…

"Are you okay?"

Bethany's concerned voice snapped him out of it. Arthur straightened, offering her a tense smile.

"Fine. Tired, that's all."

"I should think so, you never sleep."

There was a knock on the door. Bethany and Arthur turned as Micah peered in at them.

"Hey. All set?"

"One moment, please," Arthur murmured. Micah nodded and shut the door.

Arthur turned to Bethany. "I wanted to say… thank you."

"Thank you?" Bethany repeated. "For what?"

"For just… being you," Arthur said. "For sticking with me, even though I've been, well… excessively moody, to put it lightly. For visiting me in the hospital, for making me feel wanted, for supporting me so warmly. I'm not used to that kind of dedication, and yours is… overwhelming, and so valued. Thank you, Bethany."

She blushed. "Wow. You're welcome, Arthur. But you should know… you're very worth it. You should always feel welcomed and comforted. You're a good person."

Arthur smiled. "That means a lot to me."

Bethany grinned, and leaned forward, kissing him gently. Arthur returned her kiss, which was completely sweet and heartfelt, and he felt himself getting wrapped up in her presence again; she was just so lovely, and kind to him, and-

A sudden piercing headache made him pull away, gasping.

_"Thank you for not leaving me."_

_"Leaving you? Did you think I would even consider it?"_

"All right, there?" Bethany asked, smirking a little.

He nodded, his face slightly flushed, his voice and Ariadne's ringing in his ears. "Yeah, just fine."

At that moment, Micah opened the door once more. He gave a brief smile before adding, "We should go, I know you want to have dinner before we get to the airport."

"Yes please," Arthur said, rising to his feet. He picked up his bags and left the room without a second glance, Bethany and Micah shadowing him.

Arthur paused by the kitchen counter, fishing in his pocket. He was aware of their eyes on him as he procured his key, setting it down on the counter with a dull clunk.

"It'll be weird," Micah commented, "living without you here."

"Guess you'll have to find a new roommate," Arthur said.

Micah shrugged. "That wasn't what I meant."

Arthur looked at him. "I know."

His relationship with Micah had been…shaky, to say the least, since that visit to Washington. Though Arthur wouldn't take back the things he'd furiously said to Micah, nor the punch that had accompanied them, he felt a little bad about the whole fiasco. Arthur understood that Micah was just trying to help; in a way, Micah reminded him of his old military buddy, Jonah, who'd been a wise-cracking, fun-loving boy until that day in Afghanistan.

_Jonah…_

"_A girl and a boy. Vanessa is five, and Arthur is three."_

"Arthur?"

He hadn't realized that he'd closed his eyes. Arthur opened them quickly, realizing that Micah was watching him.

"Are you okay?" Micah asked softly.

"He's been doing that a lot today," Bethany said, concern in her tone.

Arthur gave one jerky nod. "Yes."

One glance into Micah's eyes told him that Micah was aware that he'd just been witness to another repressed memory. Micah opened his mouth to comment, but at Arthur's swift look towards Bethany, he recovered quickly. "Sure you have everything?"

Arthur gave him a look, and Micah smirked. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're the point man, you've got everything planned to a T."

"Damn straight," Arthur murmured. Micah's smirk grew more pronounced as they all exited the apartment.

On the sidewalk, Arthur turned to face Bethany.

"I guess this is goodbye," Bethany said.

"Until August," Arthur added. She smiled and this time, it was he who leaned forward and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her. She hugged him tightly, but relinquished him when Micah awkwardly cleared his throat.

"What?" He asked, at Arthur and Bethany's irritated expressions. He stepped to the curb, raising his arm to hail a taxi.

Arthur turned back to Bethany. "I'll call you when I can, yeah?"

"Sounds good," she murmured. "Be safe."

"You too."

Micah had already accessed a taxi, and so with little else to do, Arthur put his bags in the open trunk and climbed in. He waved at Bethany, earning a sad smile in return, and he watched her until the taxi turned the corner and he could no longer see her.

The car ride to Ariadne's was quiet. While Micah fidgeted, Arthur remained still, staring out the window at the streets of Manhattan. It was still hot as Hades, but he'd become more acclimated to the climate. Arthur instead admired the city he'd occasionally lived in over the past decade, taking in the dominating skyscrapers, eclectic people and bustling roads. He'd loved New York for providing the perfect place for him: with its large and diverse population, the city was a haven for all sorts of runaways, including supposed dead men who didn't want to be found.

Of course, he'd never had to live in the city sewers. That would undoubtedly tarnish his opinion of the city as a sanctuary.

"What are you thinking about so intently?"

Arthur glanced around, catching Micah's questioning eye.

"Well," he said. "Considering this could very well be my last afternoon… I thought I'd take in some of the scenery."

Micah flinched. Arthur stared.

"You sound…" Micah hesitated. "Like you did when you thought you were going to die… And we went to the beach and we surfed and you told me you were okay with dying… so nonchalant about everything…"

"Let's just say I'm fairly used to the feeling that I am about to die," Arthur commented.

Micah nodded. "Yes, I know. But it's not something _I'll_ ever get used to."

"Are you going to give me a speech about your affection towards me?" Arthur wondered. He sounded rather condescending, but he hadn't intended to.

Surprisingly, Micah only smiled. "No, I won't," he murmured. "You've heard it all before. And I know you'll remember it; maybe not right now, but soon."

Before Arthur could comment, the taxi stopped, as they'd just arrived at Ariadne's apartment. The two men climbed out, and this time, Micah helped Arthur cart his bags inside and up the stairs.

Micah had barely finished knocking when the door flew open. Cobb smiled grimly at them.

"Come in," he murmured. When Arthur made to follow Micah in, Cobb stopped him, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Are you ready?" Cobb asked, blue eyes very serious.

"As I'll ever be," Arthur murmured. "And don't worry. That's my job."

Cobb couldn't help but grin. "I know. I look forward to you taking up that task again."

Arthur opened his mouth to disagree-no matter what happened today, he wasn't going to dream again-but found he couldn't in the face of Cobb's amused glimmer. He swallowed his displeasure and managed to nod.

Ariadne's living room was a mess. Chairs from the dining table were lined up in a semi circle around the couch, and the most high-tech PASIV Arthur had ever seen rested on the table in front of them. He walked to it, staring down at the machine. The lines were thicker than normal, and it looked like twice the dose of somnacin was hooked up. His eyes raked over the features, studying the panel of the computer that'd put them out, the numbers that flashed and shimmered.

"Cool, huh?"

Arthur spun around, shocked at the voice. Sure enough, Adam was standing next to him.

"Adam?" He asked.

Adam smiled. "Surprise."

"What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't miss the chance to go into your mind," Adam said cheerfully. "Now I'll know for sure whether or not it was you who broke that automated airplane I had in 1989."

Arthur snorted. "Spoiler alert: I did."

"Yeah, I guessed as much." Adam stepped forward and hugged Arthur tightly, an embrace so warm that Arthur understood why Adam was really there.

"You're terrible at goodbyes," Arthur said softly.

Adam gripped his shoulders even more tightly. "You suck at _not_ giving them."

"Touché." Arthur pulled back, squeezed Adam's arm. "I'm sorry about all this. You deserve a better brother."

"No," Adam said. "I deserve a brother who _doesn't keep dying_. There's a difference."

Arthur laughed. The brothers smiled at each other, until Cobb's voice interrupted them.

"Looks like we're set," he said.

Eames, who Arthur saw was hovering near the window, nodded. "Let's get this show on the road."

"How does this work, exactly?" Arthur asked as they all settled down. Ariadne sank down next to him on the couch, while the others took the chairs around them.

"I can't tell you that," she said.

Arthur sighed. "Yeah, I know. Anything you _can_ tell me?"

"Not really," she said thoughtfully. "We won't speak more than necessary; you have to experience these memories on your own. Anything more might encourage your unconscious to set up stronger barriers for us-"

"And it's already going to be difficult as hell," Eames added. "Considering it's your mind."

"What does that mean?" Adam demanded.

"Arthur is adept at dream share," Eames explained. "His mind is fortified, quite expertly, at dispelling intruders. The moment he realizes we're there… Well, it's open season."

Arthur grimaced. "Sorry."

"Eh, don't be. At least this time we won't be going to limbo. Only…" Eames trailed off, glancing at Ariadne.

She sighed, turning to Arthur. "The others are only coming as… my bodyguards, I guess. They'll only be on the surface with us. You and I will have to go much deeper, if this is going to work. That's when it gets dangerous."

Arthur swallowed. "I see."

"Are you still willing to do this?" Cobb asked. All eyes turned to Arthur.

He considered Cobb's question. If he didn't go through with this, allow them to explore his wrecked mind, he would fly to Australia as planned. He would spend some quality time there with Bethany, until she left to return to New York for school. And then…

He'd wait for his mind to cave in and his inevitable death to occur.

And if he _did_ go through with this, he could very well be dead within the hour. Or, worse, trapped in some limbo-space of his own mind, with no clear escape…

Or, Ariadne could be successful, and he might actually end up surviving, to live a life free of espionage and vendettas, and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be alone anymore.

Arthur swallowed. "Yes. I understand the risks, but… Yes."

The others nodded tensely. He glanced to the side and met Ariadne's eyes. She gave him a small smile. He turned back to the others, meeting each set of eyes individually. Reflected back at him were emotions of caring, understanding, trepidation… and hope.

Last was Cobb. Arthur gave him a nod, and Cobb pushed down on the plunger.

* * *

The first thing he saw was sunlight.

Arthur stared around him in amazement. He was standing on a cliff, tall sea grass waving in the breeze around him. The sun shimmered straight above him in a cloudless sky. He took a deep breath, inhaling ocean air.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned. Adam nodded towards their right.

Two young boys, no older than ten, were standing in the grass, about ten feet apart. They were identical in nearly every way, from haircut to height to dimpled smile. The only differences were in their clothes.

"…Amanda? Really?" Young Arthur snorted. He tossed a baseball towards his brother, who caught it in his mitt-clad hand.

"She's pretty!" Young Adam said indignantly. He threw the ball back towards Young Arthur, a bit harder than necessary.

Young Arthur shrugged. "I guess. She wears an awful lot of pink."

"What's wrong with pink!?"

"Nothing. But it's obnoxious."

Arthur and Adam laughed, unable to look away from their younger counterparts. In the distance, Arthur saw Micah smiled fondly.

"Boys!"

Everyone turned around. A white Mustang convertible from the sixties was parked at the edge of the grass, on a gravel road, and a man and woman were sitting on the hood. Arthur's breath caught.

"Mom…" He murmured. "Dad…"

"It's time to go," Eva called. Eli slid off the car and held his hand out to Eva, who took it, joining him on the ground.

Young Adam glared at Young Arthur. "We'll talk about this later. First, I'll beat you back to the car."

Both boys began a fast sprint towards the car, leaping over the tall grass like gazelles, in the way only young children can. Arthur stared wistfully after them…

…And in the next moment, he stood in a grimy apartment. He looked out the window, catching a glimpse of a dark city, all towering skyscrapers, huge advertisements, crowded streets. Shanghai.

A soft gasp made him turn.

A younger version of himself, twenty-one years old, sat tensely on the ragged sofa, wearing only a t-shirt and underwear. In front of him were half a dozen nearly empty bottles of liquor, and an ash tray held a pile of cigarette butts. As he watched, his self stubbed out another cigarette in the tray.

Arthur knew exactly where he was. This was one of his first jobs with Cobb, just months after he'd left the United States, months since he'd died to his family.

His younger self grimaced, hands rubbing on his bare legs. Arthur dimly heard Eames' hiss of disgust at the sight. His legs were covered in scars, many raised red and thick. As he watched, his younger self let out a moan of pain, and a tear slid from his eye.

He reached forward and lifted a syringe off the table, placing it in his mouth as he wrapped his left arm in a tourniquet. Arthur turned away as his younger self stabbed the needle into the crook of his elbow.

He met the shocked faces of the others.

"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered. "I never wanted you to know." He saw a world of questions in their faces-_how long were you using, were you addicted_-but luckily, the memory faded before they could ask.

* * *

"Staff Sergeant."

A prim, crewcut Arthur dressed in army fatigues spun on the spot as a grizzled man in a service dress suit approached him. The man lifted his arm in a salute, which Arthur returned.

"Corporal."

The older man grinned. "Strange hearing that coming from you, boy."

Arthur smiled in response. "It's good to see you, Monty."

The two exchanged a firm handshake. Monty Eliot broke it, revealing a thin manila folder.

"I have your assignment," he said gruffly. "Looks like they're sending you to the desert."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"

"Afghanistan."

Present Arthur heard Micah's soft gasp of recognition, heard Adam's clicked tongue. He could only watch as his Past self accepted the folder from Eliot, opening it fluidly.

"Training mission," he commented.

"Bunch of new recruits. Good territory. Shouldn't be any trouble."

"I hope not," Arthur agreed. "I do have school."

Eliot chuckled. "How's that going?"

"Straight A's."

"That's my boy." He glanced at the folder. "You leave in three weeks."

* * *

He was screaming, screaming and sobbing. Arthur remained still as his companions gasped and scrambled away from the violence before them.

Past Arthur's head had barely broken the water's surface before he was shoved into it again. He convulsed severely, struggling to fight off the men who kept him under the water. Moments passed in silence.

Then he was above, breathing again.

In Arabic, one of the men yelled at him: "_Why were you here?_"

Arthur shook his head. Under he went, again.

While his friends looked away, at anything other than Arthur's torture, Arthur himself remained still and straight, staring at the scene. This wasn't just a memory to him; this was a daily event he would never forget.

A sudden piercing pain made the real him scream, louder than his past self.

They weren't the only ones who screamed.

* * *

"What's wrong with him!?"

"Is this normal?"

"Where the fuck did he send Eames?"

"Ariadne, maybe-"

"_Arthur!_"

He dragged his eyes open to a blur of faces. Adam, Cobb, Micah, Ariadne. They wore similar expressions of worry and fear, which barely lessened at the sight of his open eyes. Everything around them was empty white space.

"Arthur, can you hear me?" Ariadne asked breathlessly.

"I can't…" He groaned. "My head."

Micah, terror personified, turned to Ariadne. "What's happening?"

She swallowed. "Helena… She warned me… It's his memories, they're starting to break through…Physically."

"Isn't that what we want?"

"Not like this," Ariadne whispered. "Slowly, _meshing_, remember? This is… violent. He can't keep up."

"How do we help him?" Cobb asked.

"We have to keep going."

"Where's Eames?" Arthur slurred.

Ariadne and Cobb exchanged a glance, before Ariadne turned back to Arthur: "Gone."

* * *

Mal spun around him in a graceful pirouette. "Loosen up, Arthur," she trilled in her throaty French voice.

An Arthur of eighteen years old blushed. "Mal…"

"_Mon petit frère,_" Mal cajoled. "_Danse!_"

Reluctantly, Arthur took her hand. They danced together, to a pace set by the brisk French jazz that overwhelmed the small club. Everywhere was cigarette smoke, alcohol, sensuality.

Mal leaned in close, breathing in his ear. "Look around you, Arthur. Look at all the pretty girls…"

"I already have a pretty girl in my arms," Arthur joked.

"_Ouais_, but you cannot take me home."

Arthur shrugged. "What's your boyfriend's name again?"

"Dominic. You and him will be the best of friends, I just know it."

"I doubt it. He'll forever be the one who kept you away from me."

Mal swatted him on the shoulder. "Hush. Jealousy does not become you."

Arthur smirked. "What does become me, then?"

"Judging by the way that girl is looking at you," Mal said, nodding behind him. Arthur turned, catching the eye of a curly-blonde studying him from a table. She winked.

He looked back at Mal. "Always looking out for me, huh, Mal?"

"Anything for you, _mon ami_," she said brightly. "One more dance?" They eased into a slower dance, standing close together.

"Anything for you, Mal."

The happiness and peace of the scene was abruptly shattered by Ariadne's shriek:

"_Cobb!"_

Arthur spun around in time to see Cobb crumple to the floor, blood spewing from his mouth.

* * *

"No, no, no, please, Papa…"

Young Arthur sobbed, gripping onto the lapels of his father's jacket. Eli's eyes were open, blank, staring at the ceiling and not at the son who desperately clung to him.

"Papa," Young Arthur begged. "Come back, please, no, God…" He looked up at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face. "God, please, please, this one thing…"

There was no answer from the heavens, nor from the group of dream sharers watching the scene, unknown to Young Arthur but very much to Present Arthur.

Eli laid in a pool of dark blood, and Young Arthur's eyes were relentlessly drawn to the thick substance that stains the knees of his jeans that rest beside Eli. He gulped, following the blood that stemmed from the bullet hole in Eli's chest, spread over the carpet of the Russian apartment…

Young Arthur's eyes locked on something else, lying next to Eli. He reached forward, lifting the red die from the floor. He swallowed, still crying, as he rolls the die.

Four.

* * *

"Arthur! Arthur!"

"Is he…"

"That was Mal?"

"Arthur!"

He gasped, feeling like he'd just been revived with CPR. Arthur glanced around, his eyes heavy, barely making out the three faces above him, the light of the empty white room nearly blinding him.

"No more," Arthur croaked. "I can't…"

"He killed them, so Cobb and Eames have woken up, should we-"

"We can't stop now," Ariadne hissed.

"Ariadne," Arthur moaned. "Please…"

She looked at him, chocolate brown eyes meeting dark brown. Arthur felt haggard, exhausted, drained.

"I don't know how much more I can take," he whispered.

"If we stop now," Ariadne said softly. "We can't come back. You'll die."

"Go," Arthur managed. "I'm dead either way. Save yourself…"

The world vanished.

* * *

Twenty-six year old Arthur waited on a train platform somewhere in suburban Germany. In his hand he held a cell phone. He dialed, holding the phone to his ear, his expression sorrowful.

Though they shouldn't be able to hear it, Arthur and the others could hear the dull ringing, followed by a click.

"Hello?"

Adam sucked in a deep breath at the sound of his own voice.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Past Arthur didn't breathe, but closed his eyes at the sound of his twin's voice.

"Is this Arthur?"

Past Arthur's eyes snapped open, his expression shocked. In the receiver, Adam laughed.

"I knew you'd try to contact me for our birthday. Ghost call is kinda weird though. But I'll take it. Happy birthday to you too, man." He paused and added. "Some telemarketer is probably listening to this in sympathy. So I'll hang up. Talk to you later."

He hung up.

Amazement clouded Arthur's face as he slowly lowered the phone, closing it. He lifted his eyes, staring straight ahead of him as the train rushes into the station.

Present Arthur turned to Adam, standing next to him. Adam's face shone with tears.

"It really was you," Adam croaked. "I thought…"

"I wanted to hear your voice," Arthur admitted. "I missed you so much. I thought of you, every damn day."

Adam inhaled. "Thank you."

Adam's death was more peaceful than the others. Rather than a gruesome shot to the heart or knife to the throat, he simply vanished, taking the train station with him.

* * *

The lights flickered in the hospital room, but Arthur barely moved, his heavily bandaged legs in front of him. He stared straight ahead of him, at the blank wall. Next to him, Eva stretched, standing.

"I should go," she said softly.

"I know," Arthur said. "I don't want you to miss your plane."

Eva smiled, reaching out and touching Arthur's face. "That's my boy." She leaned forward and gave him a hug. Arthur clung to her, burying his face in her hair.

"I'll call you when I land," Eva promised. She straightened, Arthur reluctantly letting her draw away. His face was set in a hard mask, which Eva mistook for physical pain. "Should I call the nurse?"

"No," Arthur said quickly. "I'll just, uh… I'll miss you, mom."

Eva frowned. "Arthur, I can call in for another week off-"

"No. You miss your students, you need to go back to work. I'll be fine." He stared at her intently, attempting to convey more with that sentence: that no matter what, he would be _fine_.

Eva studied him, searching his face, before sighing. "All right. Don't go anywhere, you hear me?"

"Course, mom," Arthur said, the lie thick in his throat. "I love you."

"I love you too, my beautiful son. I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you," Arthur managed. Eva gave him one more brilliant smile before slipping out the door. The moment it closed, Arthur collapsed in on himself, shaking with silent sobs. Arthur, Micah and Ariadne watched in grief-stricken silence.

Eventually, Arthur pulled himself together. He reached for the cell phone resting on the nightstand next to his bed, dialed a number from memory.

"Hey, Monty, it's me," he greeted. "Yeah, I'm fine. Listen: I need you to take me to Washington. There's something I have to do."

* * *

"_Oh my God!_"

Micah screamed, and Ariadne scrambled to his side, trying to stop the blood that spurted from his chest. Arthur was nowhere in sight. The two of them were completely alone in an empty white space.

"Micah, Micah," she crooned desperately.

Micah gasped. "He got me."

_Who did?_ Ariadne could not fathom what was happening. When Helena had said things could get violent if Arthur caught them, she'd envisioned Arthur shooting them, them fighting back. Not these single, sneaky, bloody murders. She felt like she was in a bad horror movie.

"Where is he?" Micah asked.

"I don't know," Ariadne cried. "Please, Micah, don't go…"

She trailed off. The scene was uncanny in how much it reminded her of Arthur's memory of his father's death.

She wondered if Arthur's subconscious viewed Micah with as much awe and love as he had his own father.

Micah looked at her. "F-Find him, Ari. _Find him_."

His eyes closed, and Ariadne heard a pair of footsteps, growing louder as they approached her. As Micah died in front of her, she rose, and began to run in the opposite direction.

* * *

Micah woke gasping.

Immediately, Cobb was at his side, his face pale and drawn. "Micah, breathe, you're okay."

"What…" Micah looked around him, recognizing Ariadne's living room. "_Shit_."

"Where's Ariadne?" Eames demanded. His hand was rubbing his stomach, and Micah guessed that was where Arthur's mind had killed him.

Micah looked at the couch. Both Arthur and Ariadne were fast asleep, mirroring the other.

"Still there," Micah said.

Eames got up and went to the PASIV. Adam's hand on his arm stopped him.

"What are you doing?" Adam asked.

"Shutting it down," Eames grunted. "Before Arthur does her in, or worse."

"No, you can't!" Micah exclaimed. "Eames, she's looking for him, she's getting close, she…" He trailed off, remembering the footsteps and how terrified Ariadne had looked when she realized Micah was dying, leaving her there…

He shook his head. "She can do it."

"I don't like this," Eames grumbled, looking at Cobb.

Cobb was shaking. "Neither do I. But we have to trust Ariadne. This is what she wants. We have to let her try."

"I trust her. It's Arthur's mind I don't trust…"

"Well, there's nothing we can do about that now," Adam snapped. "Whatever happens next, they're in this together."

The four men looked at the two unconscious dreamers on the couch. Micah took a deep breath and sent a silent prayer to them:

_Stay safe_.

* * *

Ariadne ran, her breath coming in harsh pants. She could still hear someone pursuing her, until a gunshot shattered in front of her. She yelped and took a hairpin turn, diving-

Falling heavily onto a hardwood floor.

Ariadne groaned, dragging herself upright, sitting back on her heels. In front of her was a small living room, dominated by windows that showed downtown Paris. Slowly, she rose to her feet as she became aware that classic rock and roll was coming from the stereo sitting near the bookshelf, surrounded by photographs of her and Arthur. But this couldn't be where she thought she was...

She looked behind her, but saw no sign of the white room, nor someone intent on killing her. Instead, she saw her old dining table, the elegant paintings that dominated the wall. She froze.

Arthur and Ariadne were seated at the table, eating dinner together.

"…And I have to buy new books," Past Ariadne was grumbling. "Because I haven't spent _enough_ money on school already-"

"I'll pay for them," Arthur said quickly.

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Please. Let me rant without you inserting your chivalry."

Arthur chuckled. "Okay." He hesitated. "But there is something…"

Ariadne groaned. "Oh boy."

"I know that you've been looking for a work space," Arthur said hurriedly. "And you're right, your apartment is much too small. So, um… I have a space for you."

"Oh no," Ariadne said. "How much did you spend?"

"Nothing."

"Sure…"

"I'm telling the truth. The work space is here, in my apartment." He blushed as Ariadne could only stare at him, her mouth slightly open. "I cleaned out my spare room… I wasn't using it, honestly, it was just there. I thought you'd appreciate it more."

Ariadne swallowed. "You did that for me?"

"Yes."

She took a deep breath, before beaming. "Arthur, this is wonderful! Thank you, thank you!" She leaned forward and kissed him eagerly. Arthur's eyes slid closed, and only now did Present Ariadne see that he'd smiled at her joy. Her eyes welled up.

She knew what was coming, but her heart still lurched as her younger self broke the kiss to gasp, "I love you."

Arthur's eyes widened. "What…"

She blushed. "I love you."

He swallowed. "Do you mean that?" He asked, voice tiny.

Ariadne nodded enthusiastically. "Of course. Arthur, I love you."

"Say it again."

She looked amused, but indulged him. "Arthur Zaleski, I am in love with you."

A smile, a true, glorious, smile, graced Arthur's face. He gripped her hand in his, their dinner forgotten. "I love you too, Ariadne."

Past Ariadne suddenly vanished.

Ariadne stood still, mouth open in surprise. The scene seemed to have frozen, Arthur's eyes still locked on where she'd just been.

So of course, she nearly jumped out of her skin when Arthur stood up, turning to face her.

"Hello, Ariadne," he murmured.

Ariadne tried to compel her feet to move, to get away from this threat, but she was stunned by that scene and the sudden turn of events. "I…"

"I've been waiting for you for a long time."

And then, she knew.

He looked so sad, so sorrowful, and he was staring at her with rampant longing and desire, and his shoulders were hunched in misery and she realized this was no mere memory spasm, this was something played on a loop, in a corner of a mind where a past self was kept-

She trembled. "Arthur?"

He smiled somberly. "I knew you would find me eventually."

Ariadne reached forward, desperately trying to touch him, prove he was real, but the world abruptly collapsed, and she was back in the white room, her hand reaching for nothing in front of her.

She took a deep breath. She smiled.

_He's still here_.

**and there you have it. review, please**

**next chapter: we check in with the rest of the team in reality, while Arthur and Ariadne continue their trek through Arthur's mind...**


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